


I Want You, I Love You, I Knead You

by Bluebluebaby



Series: Bake It 'Til You Make It [1]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: AU, F/F, Fluff, Pupcake - Freeform, why am I doing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 50,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8139194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebluebaby/pseuds/Bluebluebaby
Summary: The CtM/GBBO crossover nobody asked for. 
(They DO like cake.)





	1. I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl

**Chapter 1**

 

Patsy Mount doesn’t often cave to peer pressure. Other than a brief stint as a blonde during her teenage years, and one very ill-advised evening of tequila shots, she is rather impervious to the whims of others. As she steps off the bus into the great white tent, however, she can’t help but feel a bit bullied into this predicament. 

 

It’s not that she doesn’t like baking. In fact, crafting masterpieces from flour, eggs, sugar, and butter, has given her a semblance of control and steadiness when life has been anything  _ but _ artful or structured. Her mother’s cookbooks had gotten her through the darkest periods of her grief, and since then, a new skill has accompanied each trial and tribulation. Biscuits for broken hearts; cake for long nights on-call; pastry for panic attacks that grip her around certain times of the year. 

 

Sometimes, gluten is the only thing that can hold the world together.  

 

It seems her fatal mistake was in sharing the products of her compulsion with her colleagues. Patsy can  socialise perfectly competently, but she’s never been able to answer personal questions with the ease so many people seem to possess.  Instead, she had wormed her way into the hearts of her coworkers with brownies and tarts and pies and cakes and as a result, they had encouraged her to apply for  _ The Gigantic British Baking Fete.  _  Honestly, after seeing the length of the process she had had half a mind to give up the whole thing and lie that she hadn’t made the cut, but Patsy prides herself on being a woman of her word, no matter how silly her promises may be. 

 

So, after four months of interviews, and practice bakes, and camera tests, she has finally arrived at the pinnacle of amateur baking and British television. 

 

She feels a bit like she’s going to vomit. 

_

 

There’s always a good bit of awkwardness in these sorts of things, a group of people thrust together for a common purpose twiddling their thumbs as they wait for the action to begin. The crew are entirely nonplussed with the whole operation, as the contestants begin to get set up and introduce themselves to one another. Patsy can’t help but eye everyone from a competitive angle, no matter how friendly the tone of the show is.

 

The elder women obviously pose the largest threat of sheer experience.  There’s Louise, from Aden, a quiet, calm psychotherapist who loves to bake for her grandchildren. Enid is a stern headmistress who is as opinionated and disciplined with her doughs and batters as she is with her students. Phyllis is a jovial gardner, who smiles kindly at the “young girls,” as she calls them, and let’s everyone know that while she is excited to sample their efforts, as a devout vegetarian, she shan’t be partaking of any meat pies. 

 

Timothy is the youngest of this year, at 16, an aspiring biochemist who delights in making edible reactions. Fred is a brash Londoner who rather looks like he stumbled into the tent by accident, though he claims that he’s been baking all his life, and judging by his belly, his bakes are more than edible. Peter is a police constable, who quietly admits that he only started baking because his wife is such a fire hazard in the kitchen, but he’s grown to love testing his skills and doting on their son Freddie with elaborate birthday surprises. Tom rounds out the men. The curate from Bristol prides himself on sharing bakes with his parishioners, though he does seem a little too vain for a man of the cloth, truth be told. 

 

Younger women make up the plurality of the dozen, though at 27, Patsy reckons she’s toeing that line a bit. Winifred is a schoolteacher, whose primary colors and neat, solid lines suggest a kindred spirit with her students. Jenny is a pianist from Hampden who seems prone to pontificating on the emotional implications of baking, if her verbose chatter during introductions is anything to go by. Shelagh, a choir director from Aberdeen, can’t stop grinning about how “thrilled she is to be here!” Her enthusiasm is adorable, and infectious. 

 

And then there’s Delia. Her bright laughter and Welsh lilt immediately catch Patsy’s ear, and quickly her eye, as well. Her blue eyes sparkle with mischief, and she looks incredibly relaxed in her trainers, rocking on her heels as if preparing for a boxing bout. (She’s certainly got the muscles to be a fighter, if the tautness of her shoulders underneath her v-neck is anything to go by.) 

 

Patsy feels a familiar flutter in her stomach when the brunette catches her eye and walks over to introduce herself. 

 

(Why in the world did she think wearing a cardigan today was a good idea? She looks like a suburban housewife. From 1963.) 

 

“Delia,” she smiles, extending a hand for a firm shake. 

 

“Patsy,” the redhead replies, hoping that her voice doesn’t crack too terribly much. 

 

“Are you a Patricia or a Patience?” 

 

“The latter, much to my chagrin.” 

 

“Well I’m sure your  _ Patience _ is rewarded during proving.”

 

Delia laughs at her own corniness. 

 

(Patsy pouts.) 

 

“Just for that, I’m going to make the banal Delia Smith joke.” 

 

“You know, normally that would drive me batty, but as long as you’re talking to me I don’t think I mind hackneyed humour.” 

 

She honest-to-god  _ winks  _ and Patsy is saved from the indignity of trying to respond only by the chipper tone of presenters Trixie and Barbara. 

 

“Good morning, Bakers,” Trixie begins, “we are so excited to meet you sweeties and taste your sweets! This year is looking to be the best yet.” 

 

Barbara chimes in ,”Patrick and Antonia will be joining us shortly, but they want you to begin our fete with your signature three-tiered cake. Wedding cake, birthday cake, funeral cake, you know that Antonia will gladly devour whatever you decide to craft for us.” 

 

“With no further ado, hop to it!” Trixie gesticulates dramatically, and the contestants find their predetermined stations. Patsy is in the very back of the tent, and fortunately her closest neighbor is Fred, who will  _ not  _ at all serve the same kind of distraction that Delia might. She quickly gets to work on her lavender chai batter, the ritual of measuring and mixing tuning out the hustle and bustle of the others. As the judges and the hosts make their rounds, she hears snippets of others’ sound bytes, and when the time comes, gives her own background. 

 

“I lived many different places as a child, and my mother always loved the scent of lavender and chai. I think this cake might smell better than it tastes!” 

 

Patrick looks thoughtful. 

“You’ll want to be very precise with your measurements- too much Lavender can lead to a soapy taste with the slightest provocation.” 

 

Antonia provides her own sage wisdom. 

 

“I enjoy cake much more than I do soap.”

 

She nods solemnly before wrinkling her brow in confusion. 

 

“If the tea is inside the cake, what shall we drink?”

 

“Don’t worry, Antonia,” Trixie quips, “I’ve got a brand new bottle of Bailey’s to go round.” 

 

They leave her to her baking, and Patsy puts her pans into the oven. 

 

Fortunately, the task of making icing and decoration leaves no time for idle sitting around- she’s sure she would have driven herself nutty if her mind had had minutes to dawdle on the very first morning. First impressions are everything, and she really must knock this out of the park. 

 

Her layers bake beautifully, and Patsy exhales a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as the cameraman pans on her pulling them out of the oven. 

 

Tom, it seems, hasn’t been so lucky, as his (painful) attempts at chatting up Trix and Babs have left his sponges dry and burnt. 

 

“You poor thing,” Trixie deadpans. “You know, I have been told a time or too that I’m too hot to handle.” 

 

“I can’t say that I have,” Barbara retorts, “but Trixie, I must commend you on that  _ burn.”  _

 

(Their high-five is truly a thing of magnificence.) 

 

Antonia devours Patsy’s cake, as well as Delia’s rustic walnut offering. Patrick commends Timothy on his meticulous balance of flavours, and Winifred’s presentation is exceptionally lovely, with a brilliant pink frosting to match her raspberry jam. 

 

Tom is clearly the bottom of the bunch, though Jenny has been a bit heavy-handed in her use of strawberry to the point that her sponge is washed out and soggy.

 

Louise is clearly the winner of the morning, with her elegant decoration and clean lemon accents. She’d modeled the cake on her own wedding, and Patsy can’t help but feel a little sentimental for her. 

 

They break for lunch, and after having baked next to one another for hours, the tension among contestants has dissipated, leaving an easy camaraderie. 

 

“Baking that cake made me feel just like a young girl again,” Louise muses, thinking back to her wedding day. 

 

“Surely you’ve only been married for a couple years, five at the absolute most,” Delia jokes, and the group erupts in cheerful laughter.

 

Patsy is frankly awed by her capacity to flirt easily with any and everyone. 

 

(Even Antonia had picked up on her charms through the mist of her eccentricity.) 

 

Patsy is sat next to Phyllis as they munch on sandwiches. 

 

“Your flavors are quite interesting, where did you learn to bake?” 

 

It’s small talk, innocuous, but Patsy feels her palms become clammy and her heart start to race. She’s bound to be asked this question countless times over the coming weeks, though, so it’s best to head it off before she’s a wreck. 

 

“When my mother passed away, she left behind cookbooks, and it was a way for me to feel close to her memory… I guess I took to it, and kept at it even after I’d exhausted her recipes.” 

 

Phyllis nods quietly, sensing not to pry further. 

 

“I imagine she would be very proud of how accomplished you’ve become.” 

 

Phyllis gives her shoulders a quick squeeze. 

 

Of all the things she expected of this weekend, kindness wasn’t really one of them. 

_

 

The afternoon’s technical is financiers, which gives Trixie and Barbara ample opportunity to joke about how much money they make per episode, while Antonia condemns the pursuit of wealth over flavour. 

 

Patsy gives a silent prayer of thanks for her holidays in Paris as she sets out making her beurre noisette. 

 

“Does that mean noisy butter...” 

 

Fred ponders, scratching his head. 

 

“Should I yell into it?”

 

Delia doesn’t look to be faring much better, truth be told. 

 

“Instinct, instinct, instinct,” she mutters, seemingly divining her next step from the baking gods. 

 

Patsy resists the urge to assist her, even if it ensures that they’ll both be around next weekend to get to know one another better. Instead, she preheats her oven in order to achieve the perfect crisp exterior on her cakes. 

 

While the signatures were fairly consistent (with the exception of Tom’s bricks), the results of the technical challenge run the gamut. Barbara quips that some of them are “very poor indeed,” and Trixie hopes that they’ve “met the gold standard today.” 

 

Fred’s hopeless lumps are in the bottom, followed by Winifred’s own soggy attempt. Delia manages to bluff her way to the middle of the pack, and Shelagh and Patsy are the last two remaining as Patrick and Antonia reach the end of their judgment. 

 

“Both cakes were delectable,” Antonia begins, wiping crumbs from the corner of her mouth. 

 

“But these,” Patrick steps in front of Shelagh’s, “had a delicacy and beauty that just edged them out. Well done.” 

 

Shelagh meekly raises a hand, cheeks blushing from Patrick’s praise. He shakes her hand, and somehow, Shelagh turns even redder. 

 

_

The first day traditionally ends with a group meal, and the sixteen of them clamber around a giant row of tables in the back room of a restaurant that’s been reserved for that express purpose. 

 

“Goodness, I haven’t had such a long day since my hallucinogen days,” Phyllis barks, earning more than one skeptical glance and a guffaw from Trixie. 

 

“I knew there was a reason I liked you, old girl.” 

 

Delia plops down next to Patsy like they’ve been swapping notes and whispering secrets to one another for years. 

 

“You were amazing today.” 

 

Patsy is grateful for the dim lighting of the dining room, given how crimson her cheeks are at the moment. 

 

“Cakes are my forte- I’ll be lucky to make it through bread weak alive.” 

 

“You do seem a bit posh for a rustic loaf,” Delia jokes. 

 

Patsy’s heard the comments about her speech and carriage all her life, but coming from Delia, it doesn’t sting. Even in her ribbing, she exudes a warmth and gentleness that Patsy can feel in her bones. 

 

“Ugh, I can’t believe we have to wear the same clothes tomorrow. I smell absolutely dreadful.” 

 

Delia mimes sniffing her armpits before recoiling with a look of disgust on her face. 

 

Before she can stop herself, Patsy blurts out “you smell absolutely lovely.” 

Delia grins, cat-who-caught-the-canary. 

 

“You brought an exact-matching outfit to change into, didn’t you?” 

_

 

As short a while as they’ve known one another, dinner does feel a bit like a family reunion of sorts. Enid scoffs at Fred’s table manners but takes a genuine interest when he tells her about his wife. Louise and Winifred bond over their work with children, and Jenny and Shelagh debate the merits of solo or choral performance. Trixie and Barbara are naturals at making everyone feel comfortable, and they lavish attention on Timothy, who grins sheepishly in response. Tom fumes a little at his failure, but he and Peter get going on  _ Top Gear _ and thoughts of burnt sponge are obliterated in a cloud of testosterone. 

 

It has, though, been an  _ exceptionally  _ long day, and the short drive back to the hotel is filled with silence and an errant snore. Not long after she’s changed into pajamas, Patsy hears a knock on her door, and opens it cautiously. 

 

“Perhaps it’s a little forward of me, but I really do think today deserves a shot of whisky, and you were the first person I could think of to celebrate with me.”

 

Delia extends the bottle of Johnnie Walker in lieu of greeting. 

 

“I suppose a little booze might help me fall asleep, at least. But let’s sit in the hall- I don’t know that we’ve reached the point in our relationship to be drinking private quarters yet,” Patsy admonishes, prim and proper. 

 

Delia giggles when she realizes she hasn’t got a glass, and opts instead to swig straight from the bottle. 

 

She has a beautiful neck. 

 

Patsy’s ripped from her hypnosis by the joyful clambering of Trixie and Barbara down the hall, singing some old sea shanty. 

 

(They’ve apparently got quite the head start on Patsy and Delia.) 

 

“Girls after our own hearts,” Trixie exclaims, slumping down next to Patsy on the carpet. 

 

(She tries not to think about what feet have walked these halls. It seems like a nice hotel, but germs live  _ everywhere. _ )

 

“Oh, I don’t even remember you two’s names right now, but I promise it’s because I’m lovely, not because you aren’t drunk,” Barbara stumbles, reaching for the bottle. 

 

“No, sweetie,” Trixie hands it back to Delia. 

 

“Babs only likes drinks that taste like lollies. And she’s a bit of a lightweight to boot. Would you believe she’s only had the one glass of wine tonight?” 

 

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Barbara. We’ll find something more your style next time.” 

 

Barbara is apparently incredibly moved by Delia’s offer, and she begins to well up a bit. 

 

“You are so kind. Oh my goodness, Trixie, I love this year’s contestants more than all the rest combined all ready. Please don’t make me send someone home tomorrow.” 

 

Trixie rolls her eyes exasperatedly. 

 

“I think that’s our cue to head to bed. See you ladies in the morning- I thoroughly enjoyed your cakes today, though I’m sure my trousers won’t appreciate the additional pressure in the morning.” 

  
  


Patsy and Delia wave her off before turning to one another expectantly. 

 

“Did I hear right that you’re a nurse?” 

 

Delia’s thigh knocks against her own as she turns to hear Patsy’s response to her question. 

 

“Yes- obstetrics.” 

 

“Oh! I love babies. Have you got children?” 

 

“I get plenty of baby time at work. I’m afraid I’m a lonely old cat lady, no kids, no husband, or wife for that matter.” 

 

Delia takes another swig before handing the bottle back to Patsy. Her fingers only burn a little when their hands touch. 

 

She may get a handle on this crush yet. 

 

“And you?”

 

“I’m a paramedic. My mam probably meant for me to snag a husband with her baking lessons but instead I just feed ingrateful ambulance drivers who wouldn’t know a battenberg cake if it beat them upside the head.” 

 

Patsy smiles at Delia’s animation, all waving arms and funny faces. 

 

“I’m sure you have loads of stories, and I do want to hear them, but I’m afraid you’ve already kept me up far past my bedtime.” 

 

Delia snickers. 

 

“Unless you set the tent on fire, there’s no way you go home tomorrow. You should be worried for  _ me. _ ”

 

Patsy extends a hand to help the smaller woman stand. 

 

“Well, Delia, some of us care about the kind of impression we make on others.” 

 

Delia squints, as if to retort, but chooses instead to nod slowly before turning on her heels. 

 

“Sweet dreams, Pats!” 

 

No one calls her ‘Pats.’ _ No. One.  _ Under strict penalty of death, dismemberment, or an incredibly chilly glare.

  
She doesn’t mind. 


	2. Sunday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day two of the first weekend. 
> 
> Patsy isn't THAT hungover. 
> 
> Delia does more before breakfast than most people do all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're reading this, bezza bless you. 
> 
> i hope i did the cakes justice <3

 

Patsy is incredibly grateful for the restraint she showed when her alarm blares at morning’s first light. The throbbing in her head is  _ annoying,  _ certainly, but not incapacitating the way a full-blown hangover would be. Hell, maybe a little pain will distract her from overthinking things today. She downs a couple aspirin and heads down to find coffee and breakfast in the hotel’s communal dining room. It’s a couple hours yet til filming, so she doesn’t bother to change out of her oversized pajamas. 

 

About half of the contestants are similarly early risers; Phyllis, Louise, and Enid crowd around a small table sipping on tea and munching scones, while Jenny and Winifred pick at fruit and granola. Delia is walking to a larger table, balancing a plate piled heavily with a full English breakfast (or three, by the size of it). Fred’s spread matches hers, and they share a quick laugh as she sits to join him and Peter. She waves at Patsy as she’s fetching a few slices of dry toast and beckons her to join them. 

 

“Morning, Patsy,” Peter greets warmly, pulling her chair out for her. 

 

“Thanks,” She mumbles in reply, still a bit fuzzy from the presence of alcohol and lack of caffeine in her system. 

 

She half-listens as Delia chatters with the fellows about upcoming football matches and household maintenance projects. Once the coffee, hits, though, her eyes fully take in the sight before her. Delia is wearing what appear to be workout clothes- a cotton vest and  _ very _ short shorts, and sweat gleams on her brow. 

(Patsy would very much like to eat her for breakfast.)

 

“She’s alive!” 

 

Delia grins when Patsy finally makes eye contact. 

 

“I had the best run this morning, watching the sunrise. How are you feeling?” 

 

Patsy glares in response, but her cheeks twitch as she fights a grin. 

 

“I feel like a delinquent goaded me into drinking on the first night of a national baking competition.” 

 

Winifred gasps. 

 

“So it  _ was  _ you two! I thought I would never get to sleep!” 

 

Patsy blushes, but Delia just laughs. 

 

“I’m sorry, Winnie, we’ll invite you round next time.”

 

“I don’t drink, actually, I find it a filthy habit.” 

 

“More for me, then!” 

 

Jenny and Winifred resume their whispering (about the trashiness of their peers, presumably), and Fred turns to Patsy. 

 

“Is that all you’re going to eat, love? It’s a long day, you know.” 

 

“I’m not a big breakfast eater, I’m afraid.”

 

(It would be awfully rude to devour Delia before she had the chance to finish the weekend, after all.) 

 

“Not much of a morning person, either, by the looks of it,” Delia goads. 

 

“Well, Delia, it would seem that we are very different people.” 

 

Their eyes meet in a heated stare for quite a few more moments than is conventional for the breakfast table, and Peter clears his throat uncomfortably. 

 

“Would you look at the time! I’d better go get dressed.” 

 

(They still have two hours until call.) 

 

Fred laughs. 

 

“I’d better run up to my room as well- Vi will kill me if I’ve got a five o’clock shadow on television!” 

 

Delia leans back in her seat sipping her milky tea. 

 

“Nice pajamas.” 

 

“I’m sorry that whisky doesn’t motivate me to run marathons like some people.” 

 

Delia frowns. 

 

“Are you honestly upset with me? I’m sorry, Patsy, I only meant a bit of fun. You just seem like a kindred spirit, I suppose.” 

 

Patsy sighs. 

 

“I’m more annoyed with myself. It probably won’t come as a surprise to you that I don’t like losing control.” 

 

“And how many times have you practiced your bake for today?” 

 

“Seven.” 

 

“I think you’ll be just fine.” 

 

Delia smiles as naturally as she breathes, and Patsy fidgets uncomfortably under the weight of Delia’s confidence in her. They have scarcely known one another for twenty-four hours, yet Delia looks at her like she can work miracles. 

 

“I should probably get going if my trousers are ever going to be properly ironed. And judging by the looks of it, you need a shower, or you really _will_ smell.” 

 

Delia’s laugh echoes, following her like a song as she walks away from the table. 

_

 

“Bakers,” Trixie begins the day’s filming, “We’ve gotten to know you a bit through the first two challenges, but the masterpiece portion is really a chance to let your personality shine.” 

 

“And so,” Barbara joins, “Antonia and Patrick have asked you to prepare a self-portrait sponge today, a biography in batter if you will. Using at least two types of cake, let us know who you are, being as literal or figurative as you wish.” 

 

“Just make sure it tastes good!” 

 

Patsy’s nerves are still firing rapidly, but there is a new familiarity with the tent that makes her movements practiced, her choreography much more elegant than it was yesterday. She reminds herself to take calm, steadying breaths as she begins her red velvet base. 

 

By far, one of the greatest attributes to the tent is how _good_ it smells. As everyone’s cakes go in the oven, the air permeates with the warm comfort of rising batter (and dreams, as it were). 

 

Some bakers have been far more ambitious in their designs than others. 

 

Jenny appears to be doing a to-scale replica of a Grand Piano, if the size of her layers is anything to go on. Tom’s cricket bat is, honestly, quite dull. Phyllis appears to have struck the perfect balance of novelty and precision. 

 

“My strawberry patch is my happy place, you could say. I’ve always liked playing in the dirt, especially if it means I get to eat something sweet at the end of it!” 

 

Barbara pilfers a few of Phyllis’s homegrown berries as she continues her journey around the tent, sighing happily as she and Trixie approach Delia’s table. 

 

“Delia, you do realize that six is greater than two,” Trixie questions gently, not wanting to too terribly interrupt the determined focus of the compact brunette. 

 

“Well, yes, but you can’t well make a rainbow with only two colours, can you?” 

 

“I suppose that would be rather disappointing, wouldn't it? Pray tell, will we be able to taste the rainbow as well?” 

 

“If all goes well, each layer will have as vibrant a colour as its flavour. And hopefully both match the vibrancy of my personality,” she winks. 

 

Feeling suddenly brave, Patsy shouts over to them from across her fondant rolling. 

 

“Delia, I take it you’re not just an ardent fan of Noah’s covenant with the lord?” 

 

Delia laughs, and Patsy’s risk is more than rewarded when she feels the rich sound echo in her own chest. 

 

“No, ma’am! I’m gay as the day is long.” 

 

She turns to the camera now, serious. 

 

“My mam will probably tut her head in disapproval at me ‘parading it about’ like this, but honestly, the LGBTQ community is incredibly important to me, and I wouldn’t be me if I denied that part of myself. Visibility matters, even on vapid baking shows.”

 

Trixie goes off on a mock-diatribe about being called vapid, pausing mid sentence to check her mascara in her compact. 

 

The ringing of Patsy’s oven timer tears her away from her fascination with Delia’s words, and she pulls out her sponge to cool, replacing it in the oven with a round pan. She begins the laborious process of carving and layering her cakes with fondant and buttercream, delicately balancing them on the metal pedestal she’s brought from home. 

 

Tom, having struck out with the presenters yesterday, abandons his sponge in the oven to attempt chatting up Delia. 

 

“Wow, those colors are beautiful. Almost as beautiful as your eyes.” 

 

Trixie rolls her own and steps in front of a clearly exasperated Delia. 

 

“Tom, honey, did you even SEE her cake? Read the room, love. And it smells like yours is burning.” 

 

Patsy can’t help but grin at this development- she doesn’t honestly want any of her competitors to fail, but if anyone has asked for a hubristic downfall, it’s got to be Tom. 

 

“Twenty minutes left, bakers! We can’t wait to meet you!” 

 

Patsy spends her remaining time polishing the touches on her cake, making every last inch neat and tidy. 

 

Barbara clears her voice before the final announcement. 

 

“And, that’s time. Bakers, please step away from your cakes, and we will call you one by one to present your masterpieces.” 

 

They start at the front of the tent, which leaves Patsy wringing her hands and trying to quell her racing heart as she observes the others. 

 

A collective gasp shatters the tent when Jenny’s lid prop crumbles, sliding to the ground. Fortunately for her, Antonia declares her black forest cake “a gift from the heavens,” and assures her that “taste will always trump appearance, for the goodness of a soul is greater than any ephemeral wrapping.” 

 

Tim and Winifred’s bakes are perfectly competent, if not jaw dropping- a camera and shiny red apple, respectively. Patrick praises the clean composition while Antonia mumbles that “dry wit is one thing, sponge quite another.” 

 

Tom’s cricket bat is bland to look at, uniformly beige and shapeless. It’s not much better to eat, judging by the restrained grimaces Patrick and Antonia offer the curate. 

 

“If your aim was verisimilitude, you have achieved it. I am not a termite, and so, I cannot endure another mouthful.” 

 

Trixie and Barbara only snicker a bit. They are consummate professionals, after all. 

 

Up next is Delia. Her rainbow monstrosity reads more rock n roll than refined, but it’s incessant cheeriness certainly captures Delia’s personality, as far as Patsy can tell. Patrick is astounded by the colors she’s managed to achieve, the distinctness of the bright fruit flavours in each layer. Antonia is equally impressed, though she does bemoan that “I only wish you had included the sunshine as well, so that I could taste pure, unrefracted light.” 

 

(The cake is certainly adorable, but Delia’s smile at the praise is an entirely more exceptional sight.) 

 

Enid and Fred follow, and their critiques are similar; solid, traditional flavours, but little in the way of finesse or creativity. 

 

Patsy ambles her own creation to the front, explaining her inspiration.

 

“The olive oil lamp is a symbol of Florence Nightingale, and nursing is probably the thing about myself of which I’m most proud. There’s an olive oil cake base, and then the lamp is made of red velvet, meant to echo the heart that goes into the work.”

 

“And this ring around the top,” Patrick inquires, gently removing the third bake to slice a segment off. 

 

“An homage to king cake- I work in obstetrics, so there are lots of babies hiding about.” 

 

Naturally, Antonia bites into the piece in which the tiny figurine hides. 

 

“I had thought my chances of bearing children were long decimated, but it would appear that fate has other plans.” 

 

She cradles the plastic baby reverently. 

 

“Well done, Nurse Mount,” Patrick winks. 

 

Shelagh and Peter also fall in the middle of the pack; Peter’s Battenburg police car was wonderful in idea, but his marzipan has had a few ideas of its own. Shelagh’s chapel is ever-so-slightly lopsided, but Patrick kindly encourages her. 

 

“I know that you are capable of much better things, and we can’t wait to see them.” 

 

Louise and Phyllis round out the bunch, and though their cakes couldn’t be more different, it’s obvious that they are the ones to beat for this round. 

 

Phyllis’s strawberry patch is shimmering with life, complete with even candy insects and a beautiful chocolate soil. Antonia ends up wearing a good bit of dirt on her face, and declares the rusticism “authentic, delicious, and much better than eating vegetables.” 

 

Louise has constructed an incredibly accurate cake replica of the human brain, using special molds for each segment, color-coding the lobes. Her fondant is meticulously folded over the sponge, and the attention to detail might be creepy if it weren’t so insanely impressive. 

 

“I can honestly say that no one has ever attempted anything like this on the show.” 

 

Patrick pauses for a hearty bite. 

 

“And you have succeeded with flying colors. Bravo, Louise!” 

 

The whole tent bursts into spontaneous applause, for it really is a thing of wonder. 

 

“Alright bakers,” Barbara interjects, “Patrick and Antonia need to meet to decide the results of Week One. Out with you all!” 

 

They all flood out of the tent, where production staff have moved everyone’s cakes to be sampled. 

 

“You know, I would have enjoyed A&P much more if this had been the model,” Patsy comments to Louise as she takes a bit of Wernicke’s area. 

 

“Well, the brain is an endlessly fascinating and capable subject. Perhaps colloquial wisdom credits the heart for our nobler instincts, but the brain is the source of all our love and compassion, and what better way to share that love than with cake?” 

 

“Amen to that!” Phyllis chuckles, smiling proudly as her own bake quickly disappears. 

 

“They say that plants need only sunshine, carbon dioxide, and water, but I’ve found that a little love works wonders.” She punctuates her statement with a wink at Patsy that the redhead isn’t quite sure she understands. 

 

Until Delia bounds up behind her. 

 

“You were incredible Pats! I think Antonia is going to keep that baby forever. She’s already named him Reginald.”

 

“No one will ever accuse that woman of being boring.”

 

The older women have surreptitiously given them a bit of space, smiling across cups of tea at their matchmaking efforts. 

 

Patsy turns a bit serious. 

 

“That was very brave Delia- I mean, of course you pulled it off with aplomb to spare, but… I don’t think I could ever be so open in front of God and the BBC.” 

 

Delia grins at what she interprets as an admission from Patsy. 

 

“I don’t like secrets, Patsy. And besides, I’m thrilled to be a lesbian! Have you seen what all Tom has been up to? I thank my lucky stars everyday that I don’t have to suffer men.” 

 

“You make a good point.” 

 

They glance over toward Jenny, sobbing inconsolably at her architectural failure. 

 

“Should we?” 

 

Delia moves as if to comfort her, before Enid storms in confidently, urging the girl to “pull herself together for chrissakes. Even if you fail, fail with dignity!” 

 

The pep talk doesn’t have much time to inspire before the dozen are called back to the tent. 

  
  


“Trixie took mercy upon me, so I have the happy task today. This week was honestly the best start we’ve had in Fete history, so our judges had an awfully close competition for  _ World’s Best Baker for the Time Being  _ this week. However, we are thrilled to start things off this week by crowning Louise.” 

 

It’s certainly well deserved, and everyone applauds enthusiastically as Louise curtsies to accept the requisite plastic tiara. 

 

“Alas, some beginnings must also be endings. One baker let distraction get the best of him this week, and so, we must say goodbye to Tom.” 

 

Tom nods in understanding, like he was honestly more invested in pulling than in baking anyhow. 

 

Jenny bursts into a flood of tears at the realization that she has, in fact, lived to bake another day. Louise brushes off everyone’s accolades, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth suggests she’s more pleased than she lets on.

 

The aired version of the show intimates that this is where everyone would part ways and head home for the next week, but it’s another few hours of waiting for reaction interviews and loitering around to make sure the producers have everything they need. Somehow Delia ends up in a separate group from Patsy, and she finds herself both disappointed and relieved at the thought of not seeing her again. 

 

“You look exhausted,” Louise comments, and Patsy self-consciously straightens her sagging shoulders. 

 

“I think I could sleep for a million years. And never eat cake again.” 

 

“I suppose we’ll have to plan better for the sugar crashes, won’t we? Never in my life have I so craved salad.”

 

They spend the rest of their wait in silence, but it feels easy, safe, even.

 

Patsy is used to the discomfort of new groups of people- anxiety isn’t quite the word for what she often feels, so much as a self-imposed exclusion. People can't really hurt you if they don't know you, after all.

 

But she has this niggling feeling that in this tent, she might not have to try so hard to be anything other than herself. 

  
It’s exhilarating, and comforting, and terrifying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did anybody else cry with Andrew this week? just me? k cool.


	3. Let Us Break Bread Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 2, day 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Props to @whenthecanonshootsonlyblanks for being my headcanon buddy, I apologize for tearing you away from lording over the JTV fandom.   
> 2\. the best part of GBBO is its diversity and the worst part of CtM is its lack of diversity; I wanted to acknowledge that by using only canon characters i've done a real disservice in presenting a wider variety of competitors.   
> 3\. It astounds me that any of you are reading this. Goddess bless ya.

 

Bread is… not Patsy’s forte. She likes eating the stuff just fine, but kneading dough does not come naturally to her. She’s practiced for this week more than she had time to, honestly. Katie had said quite plainly, “ _ It’s me or the bread _ ,” and Patsy had opted to cut their fling short over risking an early elimination. Still, as she meets the others for their bus to the tent on Saturday morning, she can’t help but feel a hint of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. 

 

Being a local, she’s one of the last to board (it wasn’t that she wasn’t awake early, she just prefers to pace anxiously within the confines of her own home). Delia unfolds her legs from where they’re sprawled across her seat, apparently saving a spot for Patsy. 

 

“Good morning!” 

 

(Is she ever  _ not _ happy?) 

 

As cross as she’s been at herself, Patsy can’t help but return the genuine smile, and she feels a heaviness flow into her limbs, relaxing as she joins Delia. 

 

“I imagine you had to fend off a lot of would-be seatmates for me. You’re quite popular, you know.” 

 

“I did promise Fred that I would catch up with him at lunch to debate the relative merits of wood chips versus charcoal for barbecuing. But for the next thirty minutes, I’m completely and utterly yours.” 

 

Her campy delivery still makes Patsy’s heart pound before she can get her hormones in check. 

 

It’s astounding to Patsy how  _ effortless  _ talking with Delia is- they pick up their conversation from last week about work, swapping both horror stories and humorous anecdotes from the field. Often, when Patsy tells acquaintances about her occupation, they either assume she’s an absolute angel for bringing babies into the world, or they have horribly invasive questions about just what  _ exactly  _ happens to a woman’s body during birth. 

 

(Honestly, she just needs to stop going to parties with men in attendance.) 

 

But Delia  _ gets _ it. She seems to get  _ her _ , as well. No prying questions about her personal life, no jokes about her posh accent, or admonishments to lighten up and smile more. She feels accepted for just who she is, and what’s more, Delia seems to actively  _ like  _ her for it. 

 

It would certainly be a bit narcissistic to assume her interest is romantic, but Delia genuinely laughs when Patsy recounts the fathers who have passed out in their effort to be supportive husbands, and she squeezes Patsy’s hand as she recalls a difficult stillborn delivery during her first week at the hospital. 

 

For her part, Delia is wildly entertaining, to the point where Patsy is wiping tears of mirth from her eyes as they arrive for filming. 

 

Things move a bit quicker today, as they’ve all been through the wringer once and they’ve one less among their number. They quickly assemble for the opening round of instructions. 

 

“Good morning, bakers,” Trixie greets. “Today, Antonia and Patrick want to see your savoury side. Please prepare a dozen dinner rolls, uniform and delicious.” 

 

“It’s the very yeast you could do,” Barbara chortles. 

 

The bakers quickly get to mixing their dough, as the presenters break into a rousing chorus of “Proud Mary” in the background. 

 

Patsy doesn’t trust her hands where kneading is concerned, and she pours her carefully weighed ingredients into the stand mixer. 

 

Delia, however, eschews technology in favor of good old-fashioned elbow grease. 

 

“I’ve been told I’m good with my hands,” she winks at Barbara. 

 

Patsy can’t help but stare at her rippling forearms as she works the gluten into its desired form. 

 

(She has never before in her life wished to be made of flour, but this month seems to be full of firsts.) 

 

Trixie sidles up behind her. 

 

“I see you watching Delia, are you second-guessing the mechanical method?” 

 

“No, just admiring her technique. My hands aren’t so reliable, I’m afraid. And my dough is a bit too wet for kneading by hand anyhow.”  

 

Trixie gives her an arched brow, as if to say  _ technique, my foot.  _

 

“I’m sure you have many other redeeming body parts, sweetie.” 

 

Patsy’s fairly sure her face matches her lipstick when Delia turns around to grin devilishly at Trixie. 

 

“If you ever need help kneading your dough, I’m happy to lend my assistance.” 

 

Enid has had quite enough of the innuendos. 

 

“Ladies, some of us are in fact trying to focus. Save the flirting for proving, why don’t you!” 

 

After about twenty minutes of preparation, most everyone has their dough in the proving drawer to wait an hour or so. Timers set, some fetch snacks or grab a bit of fresh air, while others hunker down on the floor for fear of straying too far from their dough. 

 

Winifred leads them on some sort of time-killing game she uses with her pupils, but Patsy is too worried about Patrick’s comments from earlier to really invest in the fun. 

 

“It’s a risky move, to attempt a ciabatta in such a brief time period,” he had admonished. 

 

Patsy is well accustomed to putting on a brave front, and she thinks she sold her response of “No risk, no reward!” gamely, but her already unsteady foundation is shaken to the core by his lack of faith in her recipe. 

 

She has worked hard on it, and the last few efforts at home were some of the best bread she’s made, but out in the tent, there are so many little factors that make things more difficult than they are at home. 

 

For example, today is chilly and cloudy, which is far less than optimal when it comes to dough rising in a timely manner. 

 

But the only way out is through, and all she can do is delay baking to the very last second, in hopes of a proper proof. 

 

As other participants start cooking up add-ins and shaping their rolls, Patsy tries not to jump the gun, but eventually she relents, taking her own dough out of the proving drawer. 

 

Rosemary and roasted garlic waft upward as she uncovers her bowl. If nothing else, her bake will at least  _ smell  _ amazing. 

 

She shapes the small loaves meticulously, but there is no guarantee that they will emerge as uniformly as they’ve gone in. They’re a bit like people in that way- everyone in this tent is experiencing the exact same challenges, and yet, they will all leave affected differently by their experience here. 

 

Patsy doesn’t have much time to philosophize, however, as Barbara warns, “Bakers! Five minutes. Bready or not, here we come!” 

 

She delays to the last possible minute in order to achieve the proper crust, frantically fanning the finished product with her baking sheet in an effort to speed the cooling process. 

 

Patrick and Antonia start from the back this time, with Phyllis carting up a strangely green assemblage of bread. Bread is clearly Patrick’s domain of expertise, and Antonia wrinkles her nose at the thought of spinach in a bake. 

 

“I do not care for greens, but they are good for me. I am not certain they are good for breads, however.” 

 

Patrick smiles gently. 

 

“I’m inclined to disagree with Antonia- you’ve achieved a subtle lightness with the spinach that really compliments your use of the sundried tomato.”

 

Phyllis beams, both at the success of her bake and her homegrown produce. 

 

Louise has opted for a pumpernickel roll that Patrick calls “Delicious, if a bit safe” 

 

Fred explains that “everything is better with bacon!” as he presents his meat-lovers delicacy. 

 

“I must confess, I was skeptical at the sheer quantity of pork in these, but they are quite delicious,” Patrick remarks. 

 

“The protein with which you have provided me will give me the strength to wage war against my fiercest enemies.”

 

Antonia levels an icy glare at the remaining bundle of spinach at Phyllis’ workstation. 

 

Timothy’s Pretzel Rolls and accompanying hot mustard are a big hit, although Patrick concedes that he lost points on presentation. Patsy’s Ciabatta look uniform, but she can’t help but release a small sigh of disappointment when Patrick breaks one open. 

 

“Just as I feared- under proved. They’re still quite dense at the bottom, and we don’t hear the hollow echo we want when we knock on the bottom. The garlic and rosemary are lovely though, it’s a real shame.” 

 

Antonia nods solemnly. 

 

“I thank you for protecting us from the wrath of vampires amongst our number, but I do wish the fates had allowed more time for the preparation.” 

 

Patsy does manage to quell her disappointment enough to prevent any on-screen crying jag, which is really, a victory in and of itself, given how the twitter fanbase likes to demean emotional women on the show. 

 

Winifred is not so lucky. The sausage she had attempted to incorporate into her roll is undercooked, and Patrick apologizes, “I’m afraid I can’t risk eating this.” 

 

Trixie and Barbara are quick to jump in front of the camera’s once her tears break, shouting “Cock-sucking cuisinart!” and “fucking Frigidaire!” to render any footage unusable, but the damage is likely done, from the two-seconds of close-up crying that already exist unblemished. 

 

Following her own critique (Beautiful presentation and bake, albeit bland flavours), Jenny moves to comfort Winifred in gratitude for her own breakdown the week before. 

 

Enid’s rustic rye rolls (Trixie and Barbara have a good time challenging one another to say that ten times fast) earn high praise from both Patrick and Antonia, who states that “this bread has an infallible moral character- it is difficult yet rewarding to eat, much like doing the right thing in the face of injustice.” 

 

“I’ll take it!” 

 

Delia’s confidence in her kneading is apparently well-earned, as both Patrick and Antonia sigh happily when they bite into her hearty spelt offering. The whole tent falls silent in rapture as they await the verdict. 

 

“This might well be the best roll I’ve ever had,” Patrick muses, pausing for another bite. “Spelt can be difficult to work with, but the honey you’ve added really lifts that nutty profile… and the kick of the pepper at the end- it’s absolutely brilliant!” 

 

Antonia even pockets a second roll as they head to Peter and Shelagh, which is nothing short of a miracle. 

 

Delia looks a bit shocked as she turns to face Patsy, who gives her a thumbs-up. 

 

As they break for lunch, it’s a mad race to grab the last few of Delia’s rolls, with the burlier of the crew members winning (although they’re honestly more happy with Fred’s offering, what with the overdose on sweets last week). 

 

Delia bounds out of the tent to extinguish some of her pent up energy in a tree-climbing race with Timothy, as Shelagh pleads them not to climb so high that anyone risks a broken arm. 

 

Patsy has been woefully diligent about abstaining from smoking thus far, but at the moment it feels like a cigarette is the only thing that could keep her from losing her mind. 

 

Trixie eyes her lighting up and walks over sheepishly. 

 

“I don’t suppose you could lend a match?” 

 

Patsy narrows her eyes. 

 

“As long as it wouldn’t be construed as bribing a presenter, I suppose.” 

 

Trixie winks. 

 

“Let’s just keep it favour between friends, then.” 

 

Just as she takes the first drag, the producer calls her over to review a shot from the morning. 

 

“No rest for the wicked. What a shame.” 

 

Patsy smokes in silence, savouring the sharp sting of her inhalations against the damp air. She lets herself remain present only with the sensation of breathing in and out. So much so that she doesn’t notice Delia bounding over towards her. 

 

“Patsy, you dark horse! I had no idea you were a smoker. That’s like kissing a chimney!” 

 

Her face wrinkles in disgust, but Patsy lights on the subconscious slip. 

 

“Does that mean you’ve thought of kissing me, then?” 

 

(After this morning, she really can’t pass up the opportunity to tease Delia.) 

 

The brunette stammers. 

 

“Um. I mean. You’re a lovely girl, but it was more just a figure of speech you know. Not that I’ve ever dated a smoker, but I’ve always thought it would be a dealbreaker.” 

 

Patsy decides to put the girl out of her misery. 

 

“Well, fret not, Deels, I haven’t had a cigarette in two months. Today has held… extenuating circumstances.” 

 

“Honestly, you weren’t really so bad, Patsy.” 

 

She leans in to whisper in her ear, and Patsy can feel the heat emanating from Delia after her climbing exertion.

 

“Especially not compared to Winifred.” 

 

Patsy frowns. 

 

“I hardly think that someone else’s failure makes me any more of a success.” 

 

“And that’s precisely why I like you. But I’ve a good feeling you’ll wipe the floor with all of us in the technical!” 

 

She can hope. 

 

Delia sees Fred waving and remembers her earlier vow. 

 

“By the way, I like the flannel. Very  _ hands-on,  _ very  _ capable.”  _

 

She lets her hand trail down Patsy’s arm as she turns to leave. 

 

“We can’t all be making rainbows every week, Delia,” Patsy shouts after her. 

_

 

Delia is right, in a way. Today’s skill test is on baguettes, which, blessed be, are the only bread Patsy  _ knows  _ she can make well. 

 

(A strong case of francophilia in her adolescent years is finally paying off.) 

 

“A crispy crust and pillowy center are the only way to get this one in the bag...uette,” Trixie cautions, as the bakers puzzle over Patrick’s recipe. 

 

Once Patsy gets started, she’s able to channel the same focus that allows her to make it through long labors and intricate procedures. The rest of the world ceases to exist as she fashions her loaves. 

 

Fred is, unfortunately, at rock bottom with his rock hard baguettes. 

 

Timothy follows, joined by Jenny, Winifred, Shelagh, Peter, and Delia. Phyllis and Enid round out the rest, and Louise and Patsy once more find themselves at the top of the technical. 

 

This time, victory is Patsy’s, and Louise smiles warmly at her, enveloping her in a gentle hug. 

 

“Well done. You certainly deserved it.” 

 

The age gap among the contestants doesn’t feel too present most of the time, but for a moment, Patsy feels the ghost of maternal approval in Louise’s words, and a lump in her throat forms, leaving her nodding mutely in gratitude. 

 

End of day interviews seem to drag on today, and it’s quite late by the time they break for dinner. The more dignified among them opt for another sit-down meal, but Delia suggests pizza and all the male contestants heartily agree, arguing over topping preferences. 

 

“Patsy, could we convince you to slum it on the hall floor with us?” 

 

She shrugs, noncommittally. 

 

“One condition: no anchovies.” 

 

_

 

The scattered semi-circle on the hotel floor reminds Patsy of her school days, ostensibly studying late into the night with friends, but really devolving into gossip and silliness once bones were named and cells identified. It reminds her of fighting off fatigue to spend a few more moments in the company of a pretty girl, of blaming her actions on the delirium of sleep-deprivation when her affections weren’t returned. 

 

Fred and Peter are too busy devouring their slices for talk, but Delia is drawing Timothy out of his shell. 

 

“Did you learn to bake to impress girls?” 

 

She affects a matronly voice, obviously kidding. 

 

“I actually learned to bake after my mother passed away… but they do say that the way to a man’s heart is his stomach,” Timothy blushes. 

 

Delia nearly leaps off of her seat.

 

“Atta boy!”

 

Patsy rubs Timothy’s back where he’s startled himself into choking at Delia’s reaction. 

 

“I learned to bake after my mother died, as well. Hell of a rotten club to be in, eh?” 

 

Delia’s brightness fades, but god love her, she doesn’t try to do anything to lighten the mood, or apologize, or ask why neither of them had confided in her before.

 

“It sucks, yeah.” 

 

“It really, truly does.” 

 

Delia bridges the scant few inches between them to hold Patsy’s hand in her own, squeezing it in a small gesture of comfort. 

 

They move on to discussing the day and their plans for tomorrow’s masterpiece, but she doesn’t move to let go or push away. 

  
For the first time all day, Patsy doesn’t crave a cigarette in the slightest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am learning so much about baking from google searches y'all. Also, this shit is unedited and I am fighting a heck of a cold, so apologies in advance for any incoherence. <3 <3 <3


	4. Under My Thumb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 2, day 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i sat down to write a baking challenge and somehow ended up with a bunch of cinema references *shrugs shoulders*

 

Patsy wakes early again on Sunday, blissfully hangover-free this week. She dresses first today, and finds the dining room much quieter at this hour. Sipping coffee at a table alone is far closer to her usual routine of reading the paper before work. That’s probably the biggest difference in the competition, honestly; Patsy is used to baking alone, to living alone, to sleeping alone.

 

She wouldn’t classify herself as lonely, so much as solitary. Which is far preferable to being codependent, anyhow. 

 

Her contemplations are broken by Winifred’s arrival. 

 

“You wouldn’t mind if I sat with you, would you?” 

 

Patsy feels a moment of contrition at Delia’s teasing yesterday, and regret at not taking the time to get to know everyone properly. 

 

“Please, I’d be honored.” 

 

Winifred sighs airily as she pulls out her chair. 

 

“I suppose that short of a miracle today could be my day to go. But I’m still so elated that I’ve even made it here at all that I can’t bring myself to be too disappointed!” 

 

Her smile is infectious, and Patsy feels sheepish for not appreciating more the experience thus far.

 

“It really is all rather fantastic, isn’t it? I never thought I would know the feeling of praise from Antonia herself, and I’m afraid it’s become addictive to the point of ruin.” 

 

Winifred giggles as she breaks a scone. 

 

“I’m just chuffed to be on television! It’s not quite the movies, like I imagined when I was a little girl, but the whole production is still very exciting!” 

 

Once Patsy asks a few cursory questions, Winifred opens the floodgates of her cinephilia, particularly for classic Hollywood films. She’s made a game of matching each contestant with their silver-screen analogue (Peter is Jimmy Stewart; Jenny, Rosalind Russell; and Delia, Louise Brooks), and she once heard a rumour that Antonia baked a birthday cake for Marlene Dietrich herself, can you believe it? 

  
  


“And what about me? Have I got an actress doppelganger?” 

 

(Patsy can’t help but be a bit curious.)

 

Winifred looks down at her hands. 

 

“I don’t think you’ll like it.” 

 

Patsy narrows her eyes and dares Winifred to back down, now. 

 

“Julie Andrews?” 

 

Patsy grins. 

 

“That’s  _ Dame Julie Andrews  _ to you, Winifred. And, believe it or not, I pantomimed  _ Mary Poppins   _ with my dolls when I was a little girl.” 

 

Her jaw drops open. 

 

“You  _ didn’t.  _

 

“Oh, come on, I haven’t always been a joyless curmudgeon,” she winks. 

 

“I didn’t mean that Patsy, just that, Julie seems so  _ innocent _ , you know, and you just seem like you’ve had a good look or two at what the world has to offer, I suppose.” 

 

“And I suppose you haven’t seen  _ Victor/Victoria _ , hmm?” 

 

“Touche.” 

**_**

 

Winifred’s optimism and gratitude has infused Patsy with an ebullience this morning as she makes her way to the tent. She’d spent the remainder her time walking about the grounds, taking in the feeling of morning away from the city, the freshness of the air and quiet of her surroundings. 

 

“I missed you at breakfast,” Delia whispers as they group together in wait of Trixie and Barbara. 

 

“I actually ate with Winifred today.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

Patsy can practically _ feel  _ her eyebrows raise beside her. 

 

“It was nice. She thinks you look like Louise Brooks. Though I suppose you’re a good deal louder than she.” 

 

Delia frowns as she lightly elbows Patsy in the ribs. 

 

“Just to spite you, I might spend the whole day in pantomime.” 

 

“I’m sure Enid wouldn’t mind that at all, Deels.” 

 

The nickname is a slip- Patsy is hardly one to impose diminutives on others, but Delia seems to be bringing out sides of herself that don’t often see the light of day. 

 

“Good morning bakers! For today’s masterpiece, Patrick and Antonia want to see a magnificent display of contrasts,” Barbara begins.

 

Patrick defines the parameters: “Using both a Savoury,” 

 

“-and sweet,” Antonia interjects,

 

“ _ And  _ sweet dough, show us the depths of your flavour potential, and your best bread technique.” 

 

“Dough’nt make us wait, bakers, get to it!” 

 

Patsy feels better about today’s bake- she’s taking fewer risks of chemistry and instead focusing on her presentation strengths. If boarding school made her good at anything, it’s a decorative plait (and fencing the elderly, but Antonia doesn’t appear to have taken up arms just yet). 

 

Although they have four hours for today’s challenge, there is still much work to do, and no time for reminiscing about school girl days. 

 

Barbara is having a grand time knicking chocolate pieces from around the room, but she gets her comeuppance when she reaches into Phyllis’s stash, and emerges, spluttering and choking. 

 

“Phyllis, isn’t chocolate supposed to be sweet?” 

 

“Oh, no, Barbara, I’m making a mole-inspired bread, so that is the real deal right there, almost entirely cocoa. Isn’t it magnificent?” 

 

(Fortunately, Babs has an emergency lolly in her pocket in case of such emergencies.) 

 

Trixie saunters over toward Patsy, as she moves her enriched sweet dough for its first proving and starts on the savoury. 

 

“No ciabatta today, Patsy?” 

 

“No, Trixie, I think I learned that lesson. I’m keeping the doughs straightforward today, though the flavours might be a bit more unorthodox.” 

 

“Well, warn Barbara if she comes this way looking for snacks.” 

 

She salutes Trixie before returning to her kneading. 

 

Talking with Winifred in the morning made Patsy realize how her aloofness has probably cost her the opportunity to befriend the others, even if they are perfectly lovely and polite. So today, while everyone waits on their loaves to prove, she refrains from smoking and joins the others in a lazy circle. 

 

“You know, I was quite the Errol Flynn type in my younger days,” Fred brags to Winifred, upon hearing about her dream-casting of the contestants. 

 

“And I was Veronica Lake,” Enid deadpans. 

 

“You know, I always admired Katharine Hepburn’s independence,” Phyllis opines. 

 

“Though I suppose I wouldn’t want her  _ Woman of the Year  _ kitchen skills.” 

 

“Patsy,” Delia smirks, “You didn’t tell us you are the spitting image of Julie Andrews herself!” 

 

She squares her shoulders and tightens her jaw to accentuate their similarities in profile. 

 

“ _ Dame  _ Julie Andrews. Show some respect. And I guess you’ve just been missing my performances of ‘I Have Confidence’ every day before the cameras come on.” 

 

“You really do have her cheekbones, Patsy,” Jenny contributes earnestly, but Delia’s giggles drown out everyone after that point. 

 

“Unfortunately, I can’t sing to save my life. I’m sorry to disappoint.” 

 

**_**

  
  


The dough and the weather are behaving much better today, and the whole tent is in a rather good mood as a result. Thus far, no one’s bakes are looking disastrous, though Fred’s presentation does leave something to be desired. Antonia looks well pleased at the prospect of the sweet breads, and she reads deeply into the symbolism of each pairing. 

 

Timothy begins today’s judging, and presents a duo of “subverting expectations,” a salted caramel and chocolate loaf paired with chili lime cornbread. 

 

“The salty sweetness and spicy acidity both cut through,” Patrick compliments. 

 

“Salt is a vital and necessary mineral to our health,” Antonia adds. 

 

“I believe I prefer it in this sweetened form.” 

 

Jenny and Peter both maintain their middle of the road status, with a black and white pairing of pumpernickel and coconut offerings from Jenny and fruits and veggies from Peter. The bakes taste good and are proved well, but the shaping of the dough is rather simplistic from both. 

 

Louise pairs logic and emotion with her bakes, a heart-shaped passion-fruit loaf and a lovely marbled-rye chessboard, which is unfortunately underbaked. 

 

“The darkness of the dough makes it difficult to get a perfect bake, but the design and aesthetic of your work is impeccable.”

 

“I can forgive an underdeveloped reasoning when the passion is as pure and strong as it is here. For reason without love is worthless, but love without reason is holy.”

 

Phyllis’s Summer and Winter loaves are well received, as well, with Antonia going so far as to claim that “I have lived a year’s time in the eating of these wares, my tongue sees memories of golden fields and snowy lanes, and I am warmed by the hearth and the sun.” 

 

Trixie seems to be the biggest fan of Patsy’s premise. 

 

“I wanted to highlight the contrast of a wild night out with a strict early morning, so I’ve made a twisty plaited chocolate orange loaf, with a Cointreau glaze, and a ‘straight and narrow’ black pepper rye loaf that uses coffee as a base.” 

 

Patrick is glad that everything is proved, and Antonia licks the extra glaze from her fingers, which is praise aplenty. 

 

Winifred does a good sight better today, with an adorable “Cats and Dogs” theme. 

 

“Dogs are incredibly sweet and kind, so my pup here is a ‘chocolate lab,’ and the cat is a ginger, with some accents of coriander. “ 

 

“I believe in the wisdom and value of our feline friends, but I respect your interpretation, and do indeed find the canine preferable in palate to his sister.” 

 

Shelagh ’s Treble and Bass clefs are lovely in construction, but slightly-underbaked in the middle. 

 

Delia has fared even better today than yesterday, if such a thing is possible. 

 

“Being Welsh, I naturally have a lot of love for dragons, so I went with a fire and ice theme.” 

 

How she has managed to construct two perfect dragons out of bread dough is a miracle in and of itself, but Delia’s hands are obviously  _ quite  _ capable. 

 

Patrick praises the smokiness of the sundried tomato and roasted red pepper loaf, while Antonia looks into the eyes of the mint-flavoured beast. 

 

“I do not believe that Saint George’s task was so rewarding as mine. I would gladly eat a thousand dragons to save a kingdom of princesses.”

 

Enid pairs humility and vanity with another rustic round loaf and an intricate braided loaf. Antonia finds the sweet plaits under-sugared to her taste. 

 

Fred explains that his loaves are meant to be man and woman, but the stick figures didn’t really bake up as he intended. 

 

“But you know, a man likes steak and potatoes, and a lady likes cakes and tea and the like, so that’s what I was going for.” 

 

“It certainly doesn’t look pretty, but you have managed to develop some pretty good flavours.” 

 

“I shall close my eyes to heighten my senses and quell my displeasure.” 

**_**

 

Judging seems to take longer today, and although it seems plain that Delia will be their winner, Winifred and Fred are arguing over whose mistakes greater merit an exit from the tent. 

 

“They couldn’t even tell my bloke from my dame!” 

 

“But they could eat it- I served undercooked meat yesterday, and that’s grounds for losing if ever there were any.” 

 

In the end Winifred is correct, but true to her word, she simply smiles and thanks everyone for having her, and immediately makes plans to stay in touch with the others after they’ve finished their talking heads for the week. 

 

Patsy even maps down a date with her to catch a live-scored screening of  _ Psycho.  _ Something tells her that despite her eager exterior, Winifred is probably as hardened a thriller-viewer as anyone. She will probably be the one clutching the armrest, in all honesty. 

 

During the goodbyes, Patsy finds time to congratulate Delia. 

 

“That kneading by hand really paid off, didn’t it?” 

 

“What can I say? I love bread, and bread loves me.” 

 

“Indeed it does. You were really fantastic this weekend. I mean you always are, but you were truly a wonder to behold in the tent today.” 

 

“You are truly a wonder to behold in general,” Delia winks, but she lets her gaze linger on Patsy’s lips for the a moment too long before an idea springs into her head and she grabs Patsy, rushing back to find Winifred. 

 

“I can’t believe I missed the most perfect pun opportunity in history! COME ON NOW, JULIE!  _ Dough, a deer, a female deer…”  _

 

Patsy rolls her eyes at being the butt of the joke, but Winifred is nearly crying tears of laughter at Delia’s (terrible) joke, so she can’t bring herself to mind. 

 

On the bus back to London, Delia slips Patsy a piece of paper. 

 

“Passing notes? Is this primary school?”

 

“Well, since we’re banned from bringing our mobiles anywhere  _ near  _ the tent, I’ve written down my number like our grandparents had to.” 

 

Patsy doesn’t quite know what to do with this information. 

 

“And I suppose you want me to call you, hmm?” 

 

Delia blanches. 

 

“Do I look like a senior citizen? No, I want you to  _ text  _ me. I work with a bunch of smelly boys who only want to talk about rugby and  _ Top Gear _ and I live at home with my parents, who are deathly allergic to fun. I am demanding that you be my friend.” 

 

“You’re despotic, you know that?” 

 

“I’m told it’s one of my more charming qualities.” 

 

“Of which there are many, I’m sure.” 

 

“The only way to find out is to text me.” 

 

“I’m not going to help you cheat on pastry.” 

 

“I’m offended you would assume such a thing.” 

 

“What will you do if I crumple this up and throw it away?” 

 

Patsy mimes such an action before carefully pocketing the slip of paper. 

 

“I’ll mope the whole week and then talk your ear off next weekend in retribution,” Delia grins. 

 

“So if I want a moment’s peace I’m forced to parlay with you?” 

 

“Exactly.” 

 

Patsy’s isn’t the type of girl to text “ _ what’s up?”  _ or “ _ how are you?”  _ by way of chatting up pretty girls. Few things annoy her so much as communication without pretense- it’s an utter waste of time. But she does send a quick message before leaving for work Monday morning. 

 

_ -Hope you got home safely. May the streets of Pembroke be nice and quiet this week so that you have time to practice.  _

 

Delia’s reply is instantaneous, and Patsy feels a thrill at the knowledge that the outwardly confident brunette has likely been awaiting her message. 

 

_ -is this patsy or just a posh guardian angel? i don’t mind either way i’m just curious _

 

She really is incorrigible. 

 

_ -Patsy, I’m afraid. Were you expecting a lot of  texts from pretty girls with unknown numbers?  _

 

_ -Well, I don’t think Antonia knows how to work her mobile, so no, just you ;)  _

Before she can craft an appropriately pithy response, Delia texts again. 

 

_ -ugh. Already being called out and I’m not even done with my tea. But as you can see, being my friend is INCREDIBLY rewarding even tho my charm is slightly diluted from its in-person magic. Have a wonderful day :D :D :D  _

 

“Friend”, Patsy reminds herself. FRIEND. 

 

_ F R I E N D.  _

  
It’s impossible to have too many of those, right? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pupcake writers have been so on-point with their updates this week! hopefully this is a suitable addition to the pantheon. 
> 
> your comments are so kind and encouraging- thank you for letting me know what you like and dislike! YOU'RE ALL MARYS, NONE OF YOU PAULS. 
> 
> anybody else see that Selandrew video? 
> 
> bless <3


	5. Shortnin' Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 3, day 1. 
> 
> Patsy runs. Barbara puns. 
> 
> Business as usual!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your headcanons and baking puns! YOU ARE THE REAL HEROES, ALL OF YOU. 
> 
> I wrote this with a fever, so it may indeed be nothing but delirium driven drivel.

 

Tony insists on coming over this week.

 

“I won’t allow you to become a recluse just because you’re on _GBBF._ And besides, someone has to sample these practice bakes.”

 

He’s immensely good at preventing Patsy from isolating herself when things get stressful (it’s an unfortunate defense mechanism she hasn’t quite shaken). He’s also got the fiery metabolism to eat whatever she produces with zero complaint.

 

He is, quite frankly, a gem.

 

“I’ve only done a run of the shortbread today, but I suppose you can dunk them classlessly in your tea if you’d like.”

 

He grins wolfishly.

 

“So, I know you can’t spoil the competition, but can you at least tell me if Patrick has the silver fox thing going on in person?”

 

Just then, her phone buzzes with another message from Delia.

Patsy tries to hide her interest at the distraction, but Tony cottons to her blush immediately and smells a story.

 

Tony Amos is nothing if not nosy.

 

“Patience Mount, that is the face of a woman in lust. Who on earth is texting you at this indecent hour?”

 

“Firstly, it’s four in the afternoon. Secondly, it’s none of your business, thank you very much.”

 

But before she can move to stop him, the mobile in his hands and he’s scrolling through her messages.

 

“Delia, hmmmm? I can only surmise that since I haven’t heard about this Delia, she is one of your competitors, and you are madly in love with her.”

 

Patsy can’t help but blush a little, no matter how utterly ridiculous the accusation is.

 

“Delia may or may not be a fellow contestant, and we are merely friends.”

 

“You know I don’t believe that, but I shan’t torture you any more with teasing. I will, however, be facebook stalking this ‘Delia Busby.’”

 

He pulls out a laptop and types her name into the search bar.

 

“I’m guessing she’s _not_ the elderly woman, not that I would judge you for that, love, but the cute brunette seems more your style.”

 

He clicks on the banner, and up pops Delia’s profile.

 

She’s got some privacy settings on, but not as many as Patsy has. Her profile photo is her in a rainbow headband, smiling brilliantly next to another young woman at what appears to be quite the lively pride celebration.

 

“Cute, indeed. Look at those dimples! And out and proud, by the looks of it. When’s the wedding?”

 

Patsy rolls her eyes.

 

“For all we know, Tony, that woman with her is a girlfriend. Besides, it would be highly unethical to become romantically involved with another contestant.”

 

He nods.

 

“I hear your valid objections, but am choosing to focus on the fact that you aren’t denying that you fancy her, because I am a child.”

 

“Well, can you at the very least do what you came here to do and give me feedback on the shortbread?”

 

“I’m sure you’d rather be eating Delia’s biscuits.”

 

“Do shut up.”

_

 

Patsy likes biscuit week. For one, proving is not involved. And she makes a mighty fine biscuit. She finds herself missing Winifred’s insipid cheer this morning, much as it annoyed her in the past few weeks. Things are starting to feel unfamiliar now, the dynamics of the group constantly shifting as they lose members.

 

“And then there were ten,” Barbara introduces faux-ominously. “But I shan’t bore you with recaps today- let’s biscuit to the chase, shall we?”

 

“Antonia and Patrick want to taste your finest shortbreads today. Make a dozen uniform biscuits, flavoured however you choose.”

 

“But choose wisely. _Mwahahahahhahahaha.”_

 

“Barbara, honestly, scary does _not_ work for you. Bakers, you have two hours. Butter hurry on up!”

 

They scramble to their latest stations and begin creaming their butter and sugar and preparing their custom ingredients.

 

Delia is in fine form today, flirting and joking with everyone.

 

She quips with Phyllis about the help she must need “tending her garden,” and jokes with Peter about reporting the crime of the fridge being unlawfully occupied when she needs to chill her dough.

 

And she self-deprecates beautifully.

 

Trixie slinks over to her station as she begins to knead and roll her dough.

 

“Now Delia, I trust that given your stature you’re an expert on shortbread?”

 

“The best of the best, Trix. I’m afraid that Timothy and Patsy might have a bit of trouble with those long legs of theirs.”

 

“Just be glad I didn’t wear high heels today,” Patsy pouts.

 

“Me neither!”

 

(Timothy is too adorable for words sometimes.)

 

It would seem that the morning’s bakes have been relatively uneventful and consistent.

 

Until Antonia bites into Fred’s summer-citrus concoction.

 

“It is as if I have bitten into Lot’s wife, and not a biscuit at all! “

 

Patrick grimaces.

 

“It think she means to say that you’ve substituted salt where you ought to have put sugar.”

 

Fred looks a bit embarrassed, but more amused than anything.

 

“Oh, Vi will have a field day with this, I tell ya. I’ll never hear the end of it!”

 

Patsy is well pleased with her cardamom and clove biscuits, and the judges seem to agree.

 

“These scents transport me far away, to a time before smog and smoke. I should think that your spices would be fitting to accompany frankincense and myrrh as gifts for the Christ child.”

 

Delia nods, impressed, to Patsy upon hearing Antonia’s (possibly heretical) praise.

 

Her own honey-cinnamon biscuits are devoured by Antonia, though Patrick stresses that he would have liked “the slightest bit more crunch.”

 

Phyllis’s raspberry jam is absconded with by Barbara, who stands eating the leftovers with a spoon as Antonia licks her own fingers.

 

In the end, it’s quite obvious that Fred is in the bottom of the pack, despite Timothy’s under-flavouring and Jenny’s overuse of rosewater.

 

“I think unless one of you lot sets the tent on fire, I’m probably on the line this week. Still gonna give it my all, though!”

 

Despite the relative success of the morning, Patsy can’t help but steal away for a quick smoke.

 

As she walks away from the tent, she spies Barbara and Trixie talking in hushed, tense tones to one of the producers on the show.

 

“You know we don’t condone manipulating the contestants for the edit you want,” Barbara implores.

 

“It’s not manipulating if they’re making goo goo eyes at each other in every shot,” he scoffs.

 

“There’s a big difference between showing banter as it happens and scoring Vivaldi beneath a kneading shot, and you know that.”

 

The producer folds his arms and digs in.

 

“Look, we aren’t gonna push anyone into doing anything, but my editors _are_ in the business of making television. People don’t watch this show for the bakes, they watch for the contestants. And twitter will lose its damn mind at the flirty Welshwoman and ice queen redhead dancing around one another.”

 

Trixie purses her lips before stalking away from the producer, pulling a cigarette out of her own pocket. Her determined steps falter when she notices Patsy, trying her best to appear oblivious and unconcerned.

 

“You heard all of that, didn’t you?”

 

“I’m afraid so.”

 

Patsy offers a thin-lipped smile of something approaching solidarity.

 

“You know we’re not in the business of embarrassing our contestants.”

 

“I caught on to that what with the cursing fits around Winifred’s meltdown, yes.”

 

Patsy sighs into the silence as she offers Trixie a light.

 

“I suppose I am a bit obvious, aren’t I?”

 

“I’m not sure Peter has any idea what is going on, but it would seem that you have a soft spot for Delia, whatever that might mean.”

 

“The producer is right. It is a good storyline- prim and posh forever-alone singleton swept off her feet by whimsical sweetheart who is literally incapable of unkindness. I’d want to watch that show, too.”  

 

Trixie smiles sympathetically.

 

“If it helps, I’m rather certain she reciprocates your affections.”

 

Patsy pauses, thinking of the ramifications of this infatuation continuing on screen, of how vile people feel empowered to be under the veil of anonymity of the internet. She thinks of how uncomfortable she already is to be shown baking on screen, much less pining over a woman who may or may not be available.

 

“It really doesn’t. But thank you.”

 

Patsy shakes off the last few ashes and fakes confidence as she rejoins the group for lunch. She purposefully sits down next to Jenny and tucks into a salad.

 

Delia shoots her a quizzical look from above her (massive) sandwich, but doesn’t press when Patsy waves her off.

 

“I feel as if I’ve hardly gotten to speak to you this whole time, Jenny. I know you and Winifred really hit it off- how are you doing this week?”

 

“Well,” Jenny laughs, “I can’t help but feel a bit more relaxed after Fred’s mixup this morning. I do rather miss my husband over the weekends.”

 

Patsy is a little nauseated at Jenny’s doe-eyed adoration of her mate, but she plays nice for the sake of cameraderie.

 

“That must be nice- getting along well enough with someone that you can’t stand to be apart for even a day. Too often you hear married couples begging for a break from one another!”

 

Jenny sighs, wistfully.

 

“He’s just my person, you know? He gets me, and I get him. It just seemed like everything in my life fell in place when we met. Did I tell you I used to be in nursing as well?”

 

Jenny trails off into a long story about how she got out of the profession, but Patsy can’t help but let her gaze linger over to Delia’s dainty profile, her eyes dancing in mischief and mirth and something else distinctive to her. Delia looks like she has a joyful secret, some hidden knowledge that can only be shared with the most trusted of people.

 

Patsy has spent entirely too much time thinking about Delia Busby and what mysteries she may or may not harbor.

 

“Don’t even get me _started_ on bedpans.”

 

She redirects her full attention to Jenny, squaring her shoulders away from desire and distraction.

 

_

 

Brandy Snaps are today’s technical challenge, which leads to a rousing rendition of Looking Glass from Barbara and Trixie.

 

Timothy waxes poetic about the chemistry of carmelization to the camera.

 

“You don’t want the sugar to boil now, but in the oven, the high sugar content is what gives them their snap. It’s really quite lovely, on a molecular level, the way heat can affect sugar’s structure and malleability.”

 

“I just know you have to roll them when they’re hot, or they break apart,” Fred grumbles.

 

Unfortunately for him, his clumsy streak seems to continue into the afternoon, and while his snaps don’t crumble, they do collapse into rather unappealing lumps instead of pristine cylinders.

 

Patsy maintains a quiet focus this round, only speaking to the cameras for technical bits.

 

“The color looks good, nicely browned. I think we’re ready to go.”

 

Her hands are steady and nimble as she rolls her snaps around the wooden spoon handle- hours of surgical assistance really do come in handy at times like these.

 

Phyllis has, remarkably, let herself become frazzled after her first batch of snaps is remarkably overbaked. She salvages them as best she can, but ends up last in the rankings today.

 

Peter and Louise follow the bottom two, then Jenny and Delia. Shelagh’s Brandy Snaps themselves are perfect, but her cream is a bit unwieldy, which puts her in fourth. Enid, who griped that the young contestants “had never had a proper Brandy snap in their life” takes third, and Patsy cannot be at all angry about her second place finish when she sees the joy and pride that lights up Timothy’s face at his victory.

 

“I know most lads my age aren’t too keen on winning a prize for Brandy Snaps, but I must say, my grandmother would be absolutely thrilled right now.”

 

Delia moves to hug Timothy in congratulations, and Patsy consciously scoots away until she’s stood on the perimeter, next to Shelagh and Enid.

 

She doesn’t hesitate when Jenny implores her to join her and Shelagh for dinner, “just us girls.”

 

Jenny goes for the usual small talk over their wine, asking Patsy if she’s got a chap at home.

 

“Oh, I don’t really date,” she mutters in response.

 

There’s no reason for her to be closeted- it’s not like being a lesbian is anything to be ashamed of, and Jenny doesn’t seem to be the judgmental type anyhow. If anything, she’s far too self-absorbed to opine on others’ proclivities.

 

But now, the moment has passed, and it would just be awkward to say “well actually I only date women and I’m a bit hung up on Delia right now but I would appreciate it if we just didn’t talk about it but thank you for your superficial interest in me as a person.”

 

So, she deflects to Shelagh.

 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say Patrick had eyes for you.”

 

Shelagh’s blush nearly sets her ears aflame.

 

“Oh goodness, even if that _were_ the case, it would be entirely unethical and inappropriate. But it was rather nice of him to compliment my sponge! He is such a fine baker.”

 

And then the rest of the night devolves into teasing about Shelagh and Jenny sharing stories of how she met her husband, and no one pays much mind to Patsy’s reticence to mention any and all things romantic.

 

It’s later than she expects when she trudges back to her hotel room, the day’s fatigue catching up with her. The hallway is dark and quiet, the other contestants nestled safely in their own rooms.

 

As Patsy opens her door, she sees a small note slid over the threshold. She unfolds it to reveal loopy, slanted writing, both tidy and lackadaisical.

 

_patsy,_

 

_missed you at dinner tonight. hope you’re feeling alright- you seem a bit off today?_

_anyhow, I was quite impressed with your brandy snaps, but then again, you are always impressive. I hope you have a restful, rejuvenating night’s sleep ;) I look forward to nicking pieces from your gingerbread tomorrow <3 _

 

_-delia_

  
She stands there for a moment, feeling like a proper arse, before folding the paper neatly and tucking it under her pillow, both excited and terrified for what dreams it may bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gotta put a lil' conflict in there ;) ten weeks is a long time, y'all. 
> 
> ALSO
> 
> RIP SELASAMINA :( :( :(


	6. Walk Softly on this Heart of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week Three, day 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, writing this won out over housework today. Sorry, floors, luv you mean it. 
> 
> Thank you all for staying on the ride ;)

 

In the many years of therapy following the loss of her mother and sister, one of Patsy’s psychologists had called her brave. Brave, for waking up each morning and facing a cruel and cold world; brave for living as truthfully as she could, brave for slogging through school and training to build a career that could help others in some small way.   

 

She hadn’t felt brave hearing the words then, and she certainly doesn’t feel brave today. Fortunately (or unfortunately, honestly at this point who knows), Delia is sat with her cohort of chaps at the breakfast table today, and Patsy can join them without the pressure of any sort of emotional grilling. Besides, everyone is trying to trick Fred into salting his tea.

 

“Good morning, Patsy,” Timothy smiles. “Are you feeling better? Delia was a little worried when you disappeared yesterday.”

 

Delia shoots him a dark look, like he’s revealed something she’d shared in confidence.

 

“Yes, much better, Tim. As it turns out, a good night’s sleep is much better for one’s countenance than a bout of chain smoking.”

 

Delia rolls her eyes at Patsy’s bad habit, but a grin peeks out from her unusually sullen features.

 

“And you’re even eating fruit this morning- I’ll have you out running with me before you know it.”

 

Patsy has done many ridiculous things for cute girls, but even she has limits.

 

“Absolutely not. There are very few occasions for which I will break a sweat, and recreational running is not one of them.”

 

Delia’s eyes glaze over for a fraction of a second as she contemplates what activities might inspire Patsy to perspire, but she catches herself quickly.

 

“Eh, I suppose you’ll just have to come cheer Tim and me on when we run the London marathon.”

 

Patsy arches an eyebrow before looking concernedly at Timothy.

 

“Tim, has Delia been peer pressuring you into something you don’t want to do? I know she can seem very hip, but you don’t have to resort to masochistic exercises in order to make friends.”

 

“Oh, no, I actually did cross country at school, and it’s been great fun to get back in shape! I even beat her in our race this morning!”

 

Delia scoffs.

 

“Your legs are twice as long as mine!”

 

Fred chuckles.

 

“You two would probably beat me if I had a bicycle. Hell, if I had a motorbike. But I could out eat you any day!”

 

Patsy claps him on the back in solidarity.

 

“I don’t know, Fred, have you _seen_ Delia’s plate? She looks small but I daresay she’s at least eighty percent stomach.”

_

 

The gingerbread challenge is the stuff of legend by this point in _GBBF_ history, and the contestants are all abuzz with pent-up energy as they assemble in the tent this morning. Barbara and Trixie sport what appear to be Hansel and Gretel costumes, and affect absolutely _dreadful_ german accents.

  


“Bakers! Today is the day you’ve all been waiting for, the pinnacle of edible architecture!”

Barbara curtsies slightly in her frock.

 

“We trust that you are not witches, but we hope to be entranced by your gingerbread creations. Make them magical,” Trixie intones.  

 

“And at least thirty centimetres high.”

 

“Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to change out of these ridiculous kits. On your marks, get set, bake!”

 

Patsy isn’t particularly fond of eating gingerbread, but the tent smells divine. She never had the tradition of building a house with her family at christmas time, and honestly, preparing for the competition is the first time she’d even attempted one. That said, she feels fairly confident in her design for the day; it probably won’t cement a victory, but she also doesn’t think this is her week to go home yet.

 

The story behind everyone’s constructions leads to plenty of opportunities for footage, but, just as she expected, Patsy is the butt of at least one joke from Barbara.

 

“If Delia was an expert at shortbread, does this mean gingerbread is your forte, Patsy?”

 

She points to Patsy’s coppery chignon.

 

“Although, there is some speculation as to whether you are a natural ginger or not.”

 

Patsy smirks gamely.

 

“That’s between me, god, and my mother, rest her soul. But yes, I think my gingerbread is quite good, if I do say so myself.”

 

Delia’s own short bob, usually pulled into a small ponytail, swings freely about her shoulders as she vigorously rolls out her own gingerbread dough.

 

“What are you making for us today, Delia?”

 

Trixie squints at the various makeshift molds littering Delia’s workstation.

 

“I am attempting to recreate the harbour and old town at Tenby, complete with marzipan sail boats and a mirror glaze sea, if all goes according to plan. Otherwise, I’ll just claim that an earthquake hit the shore.”

 

“Sounds like an excellent story. I’ll back you up in court, sweetie.”

 

Fred appears to be in much better shape today- his construction skills are to his advantage when it comes to structural integrity. He looks the slightest bit wistful as he recounts his inspiration to Barbara.

 

“One of my first jobs was doing upkeep for a nunnery in the East End. Draftiest walls you’ve ever seen, but it was a beautiful building, and the sisters were very kind to take a chance on me. I’m hoping my model is a bit more sound than the old Nonnatus house, to be honest.”  

 

Timothy is fashioning a gingerbread tree, not unlike the one he and Delia climbed last week. It looks like his branches might get too bogged down with the apple biscuits he aims to hang from them, but if anyone can engineer a clever fix around it, it’s him.

 

Phyllis is perhaps the most ambitious of the group, recreating her father’s B-17 flying fortress from his service in the Royal Canadian Air Force in World War Two. She’s the only one to attempt a moving part, with her spinning biscuit propellers.

 

Jenny has fashioned a model of the home she and her husband share; it’s inoffensive, but not particularly breathtaking. Peter’s attention to detail on his Empire State Building is impressive, though the whole group holds their breath when it comes time to assemble its four walls.

 

Patsy had spent a long time brainstorming her design- she’s not quite sure what it says about her that she couldn’t point to one particular place as especially important or sentimental for her.

 

(Well, she’s quite sure that it means she has difficulty forming attachments, and a sense of being unrooted despite maintaining a routine sort of life, but she’s not sure what it says about her as a baker.)

 

In the end, she’d opted to resort for her usual coping mechanism of humour, and the other contestants seem to at least appreciate her gingerbread baking tent.

 

“Now, I had designed this mock-up before I met my competition, so I’m not sure I’ll have time to alter all my models to match you all.”

 

“But you knew to expect me and Trixie, correct? I’ve always wanted to eat myself.”

 

“Yes, Barbara, and a little birdie told me you were partial to lollipops, so I’ve maid you out of confectionary.”

 

“Oh, I could kiss you!”

 

(To her credit, Delia only coughs a little in shock and/or jealousy.)

 

“I don’t think Enid would appreciate the distraction, Babs. She’s demanded utter quiet while she finishes,” Patsy whispers.

 

In the end, Peter’s ambition does get the best of him, and his Empire state building comes out a bit lopsided and cracked.

 

“If only you had put in a King Kong,” Patrick jokes. “It tastes wonderful, though. Shame about the construction.”

 

Jenny has responded to yesterday’s criticism by going far under on her flavours today, and Antonia laments “this house is not a home, not for my tastebuds, anyhow,” while Patrick takes a kinder approach, imploring Jenny to “show a bit more personality next week.”

 

Fred earns high praise from Antonia.

 

“I would contemplate joining the order if it meant that my lodgings should be as delicious as these. We are blessed to partake of your gingerbread.”

 

Patrick honest-to-goodness giggles when he sees Patsy’s finished product, and praises her caramel bunting while imploring her to aim higher with the overall design next time.

 

Everyone cranes their necks to admire Delia’s colorful beachside scene. She’s covered her rowhouses in bright fondant, pastels that match her vibrant personality. A part of Patsy wishes she could be as earnest and open as Delia seems to be, but for the most part she feels only pride for the brunette’s achievement.

 

Shelagh’s stained glass in her homage to Gloucester cathedral merits compliments from Antonia, but the old woman looks almost heartbroken to find that the creation doesn’t taste nearly as delicious as it looks.

 

“I wonder if you have spent so much time on the superficial beauty that you have forgotten to give your biscuit a soul.”

 

Louise’s Cinema House is perfectly competent and well-built, although Patrick feels the flavours are a bit on the safe side. Enid’s school is as imposing as she, and the flavors equally bold.

 

Phyllis’s bomber does anything but, as Antonia exclaims “eating this wing is like taking flight into the heavens.”

 

In the end, two of Timothy’s five apples fall to the ground, but Patrick acknowledges the verisimilitude of the occurrence and gives him points for flavour.

 

The judges break for much longer today’s judgment, and it feels as though the afternoon drags on interminably while the contestants linger at the craft services table and wander the grounds between interviews. Patsy doesn’t shun Delia like she did yesterday, but she’s very intentional about leaving space between them. Fred and Timothy are a wonderful buffer for the gentle touches and secret smiles that had sprung up between her and Delia all too quickly.

 

“Well, I don’t suppose I can undo that salt mishap, but I think I did right well today, eh?”

 

“Your convent was beautiful, Fred,” Patsy smiles, patting him on the shoulder.

 

“Who knows where the judges heads are at. Antonia can certainly be mercurial when the mood strikes her.”

 

“She nearly recited the entirety of the _Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner_ behind me as I was assembling my ships today. It’s a good thing Trixie and Barbara stepped in.”

 

Jenny is bemoaning her criticism to Shelagh’s ever-sympathetic ear.

 

“I mean, what if they just don’t like my personality? I feel like I was very true to myself today, and they hated it.”

 

“Now dear, no need to be so unkind to yourself! Hate is an awfully strong word. I think at most, they felt indifferent.”

 

Enid and Phyllis are sharing memories of their family members’ military service, pulling out worn photographs from their pocketbooks and donning reading glasses to inspect the details.

 

Finally, the tension is broken and the ten are called back to the tent.

 

“I beat Trixie in an arm wrestling match at lunch, so she’s letting me announce the winner this week. It was an exceptionally close week full of remarkable bakes, but in the end, one contestant soared to blitz the competition. Congratulations, Phyllis!”

 

The older woman smiles sheepishly as Timothy squeezes her hand and Enid bellows “‘atta girl!”

 

“Unfortunately, my spindly muscles mean I must send one of you home. You gave an inspiring comeback performance, but in the end, Patrick and Antonia just couldn’t wash away the taste of salt. I’m sorry Fred, we’ll miss you dearly.”

 

Fred is a remarkably good sport, and gives crushing hugs to everyone. Patsy knows his exit interview will be a positive delight when it comes time to air.

 

She’s not really feeling up to socializing on the ride back to London, so she settles into the farthest back seat on the bus, wedging herself against the cool glass of the window. Most of the other contestants pour into the front, but Delia, determined, seeks her out.

 

“Are you well and truly upset with me, or may I sit here?”

 

Her arms are crossed in annoyance, but her voice wavers with a tinge of vulnerability.

 

Patsy straightens, measuring her words carefully.

 

“I’m not angry… at you, at least.” She scoots to let Delia in.

 

“It’s all a bit silly, I’m afraid.”

 

Delia pouts.

 

“I can handle silly perfectly well.”

 

Patsy inhales, gathering courage to admit the reason behind her actions.

 

“I overheard Trixie and Barbara talking with a producer, and they made it out like I was to be the laughingstock of the whole production, because of you.”

 

Delia blanches, offended.

 

“What, have I been bullying you? I mean, I joke around, but I do that with everyone, I never meant any harm by it.”

 

Patsy shakes her head ruefully.

 

“I’m sorry, Delia, I misspoke. I mean, um, I suppose, because of the way… I feel? About you.”

 

Delia pauses, tensely.

 

“Oh.”

 

The only thing Patsy hates more than small talk is awkward silence, so she plows forward.

 

“It’s just, I would rather not be known around the UK for having a schoolgirl crush instead of being a good baker. Nothing against you, I’m just… private.”

 

Delia nods, squirming a bit as she contemplates an apt response.

 

“Now’s not a very good time for me to tell you that I really like your hair that way, is it?”

 

Patsy laughs, hollowly.

 

“No, I don’t believe it would help matters on my end.”

 

She swallows, and it feels like a lump of coal has lodged itself in her throat.

 

Delia stares at her expectantly, until she meets her gaze.

 

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable, Patsy, that was never my intention. And for what it’s worth, I think that you are absolutely lovely. But I understand wanting to focus on the competition.”

 

She can’t help but wink a bit, hurt pride or no.

 

“I know I can be very distracting. But I will leave you be from here on out.”

 

Patsy nods in gratitude, afraid that if she opens her mouth her heart will leap right out.

 

“There’s no reason why we can’t be friends, though, is there?”

 

“So much as I’m friends with anyone, certainly.”

 

Delia frowns.

 

“If you rank me below Jenny I will be properly incensed, take fair warning.”

 

Patsy rolls her eyes and returns her attention to the window for the last few minutes of their journey. She tries to pretend she can’t feel the warmth of Delia’s body next to her, or the burn of her gaze on the back of her neck.

  
It doesn’t work in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can I just say, the solidarity with Jenny hate gives me life. You are all peaches, each and every one of you. MJ bless <3


	7. I Can See Clearly Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 4, day 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVEN I COULDN'T STAND THE ANGST THAT I LEFT YOU WITH YESTERDAY,
> 
> so i've stayed up late on a work night to crank out another chapter. 
> 
> (it's a bit of a cliffhanger, but much more hopeful ;) )

Delia doesn’t text at all the next week. Patsy can’t blame her, considering she accused Delia of making her look like a fool on national television (in so many words).

 

She could apologize for being so brusque. Or, pretend that nothing is wrong and break the ice by sending a goofy selfie on her lunch break, or perhaps a candid shot of corny wordplay in its natural habitat.

 

But Patsy feels paralyzed at the thought of bridging the gap, of being the first to reach out. (“It’s why you’ve been single for three years,” Tony is quick to acknowledge.) Maybe they both need a little time to lick their wounds. Or in her case, get this silly infatuation out of her system.

 

That’s the thing, though, she keeps coming back to the hints Delia dropped that her affections aren’t one-sided. The flirting is obvious, but then again, Delia jokes with everyone. But the touches, the looks, those seemed to be exclusive to Patsy. It doesn’t necessarily help to feel that Delia might fancy her in return- in some ways it makes her feel even more foolish for being so starry-eyed in the first place. Patsy can hardly stand to get to know someone in the public eye of a coffee shop, much less the BBC. Still, she can’t help but daydream about Delia, about different worlds where they might meet, away from the camera’s omniscience.

 

In a lecture hall, back at university, perhaps, Patsy lending a pen to a scatter-brained Delia and their eyes locking as their fingers accidentally brush.

 

At a nightclub, Tony pushing Patsy onto the dancefloor where she collides with a surprisingly sturdy Delia.

 

Maybe even at work, Patsy meeting the ambulance as Delia delivers a patient to the maternity ward.

 

In every scenario, Patsy has the chance to make an ass of herself and then run away, out of sight and out of mind. Under the tent, there is no escape.

 

Seven weeks feels nigh interminable.

 

And, yet, altogether too brief, as Saturday morning arrives and Patsy once more has to face her own embarrassment. Today, however, there’s a tension emanating from the group as everyone looks around for their missing ninth member. The driver of the bus gets the all clear to depart on her radio and just as Julienne is about to protest the absence of Enid, their designated handler (a man in his twenties who really lacks the people skills to make these kinds of announcements) hollers “She’s not coming today. We’ve got to get on without her. They’ll tell you more at the tent.”

 

So, much of the ride to location is spent worrying. Delia sits with Louise today, reassuring her that everything will be alright in the end, while Patsy chats idly with Timothy, both avoiding memories of their own tragedies by focusing on work and school and anything but worst-case scenarios.

 

Even Trixie and Barbara look solemn when they assemble for the morning’s challenge.

 

“Unfortunately, Enid has had to leave the competition due to health reasons,” Barbara explains.

 

“She will be just fine, but won’t be joining us again at the tent. That does mean that we are down one contestant, and so there may be a week where no one goes home; Patrick and Antonia are free to use their discretion to determine where they would like to omit an elimination.”

 

The contestants nod in understanding, and the usual excitement for a day of baking is greatly diminished under concern for their sometimes brash but always kind colleague.

 

Trixie clears her throat and calls them back to attention.

 

“We know Enid would have _demanded_ that you all carry on and do your very best, and so, we implore you, on behalf of Antonia and Patrick, to prepare a dozen perfect eclairs, identical in size and shape, and filled to perfection.”

 

“If the choux fits, wear it!”

 

Barbara giggles her way out of the tent as the contestants begin work on their pastry.

 

Patsy likes the frenzy of stirring the choux on the stove- it’s a tremendous stress relief. And with no proving of the dough, there is little downtime this morning, for which she’s grateful. Phyllis is entertaining everyone with a narration on the history of the pastry.

 

“ _Pâte à Choux,_ of course, refers to the shape of a cabbage that this dough resembles, but before that, they were called _pâte à popelin,_ which were used to make small cakes in the shapes of women’s breasts.”

 

“I don’t know which is more appealing,” Trixie muses, “although, having come of age with the Cabbage Patch dolls, the more I think about it, the more disturbed I become.”

 

“Trixie!”

 

Delia looks absolutely devastated.

 

“You are very nearly ruining breasts for me! Which takes quite a lot, I’ll have you know.”

 

“Oh, Delia, I am so very sorry. But I would remind you that this is a family programme, so perhaps we ought to return our commentary to strictly pastry.”

 

Patsy can’t help but grin at the exchange, feeling self-conscious at the (perfectly modest, thank you) amount of cleavage her own scoop neck reveals.

 

With only eight contestants remaining, judging is beginning to speed right along. Jenny has mucked up the mixing of her dough, leading to a tough choux and little to no room for her filling. Shelagh’s orange and chocolate combination leaves a magnificent moustache upon Antonia’s lip, but she manages to withhold her giggles until the judges have moved on to the next competitor.

 

Delia’s raspberry creme patissiere is found worthy, though her pastry is slightly underbaked.

Conversely, Patsy’s choux is perfection, but Antonia finds her filling “without purpose, merely there to occupy space, and not to excite the tastebuds.” Patrick demures that it “is technically fine, but perhaps a bit simpler than what we’re looking for.”

 

Louise’s sophistication pulls through, with her lemon-basil crème and chocolate choux creating “a consummate marriage of patisserie,” in Antonia’s prayerful words.

 

Phyllis also earns high marks for her strawberry-rhubarb filled éclairs. Timothy and Peter are both found competent, but a bit pedestrian with their more traditional takes on the pastry, offering only different icings in place of the usual components.

 

As their number whittles down, the groupings at breaks become fewer. Today, Louise, Phyllis, Jenny, and Shelagh split off, and it only seems natural that Patsy should join Peter, Delia, and Timothy (she has a bit of a compulsion about even splits, anyhow).

 

“ _I can see eclair-ly now the rain is gooooneeeee,_ ” Delia belts as they assemble their sandwiches.

 

“Delia, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were gunning for Trixie and Barbara’s jobs,” Patsy quips.

 

Like Beetlejuice, the blonde suddenly appears.

 

“I can’t believe we missed that opportunity! Delia, sweetie, I will be taking that joke for the next segue, thank you, love.”

 

Delia beams.

 

“Just this once. But next time I expect to be adequately rewarded for my writing, thanks.”

 

Timothy scoffs.

 

“Don’t quit your day job, Deels.”

 

“Oh, _Timmy,_ I didn’t know we were onto nicknames this quickly! And I have no intention to stop _saving lives_.”

 

She lets her voice become outlandishly haughty at the end, and they all quickly dissolve into laughter at her faux nobility.

 

“It’s a shame about Enid,” Peter hums, through a bite of roast beef.

 

“When my mother-in-law was in hospital, she wouldn’t hardly allow us to do anything for her. I hope Enid is more receptive to visitors and the like.”

 

“Perhaps the lot of us could at least send her a care package,” Patsy ponders.

 

“It’s not like we want for able bakers,” Timothy laughs.

 

Delia simply nods quietly, the wheels turning in her head. As they tidy up and prepare for the technical challenge, she slips away to pull aside the home economist for a quick word. When Patsy raises an eyebrow in query upon her return, Delia merely dismisses her with a shrug and a wave, and they walk together back to their stations.

 

“Bakers! We’ve got a filo-ing that you might not be happy to hear that we’re doing Baklava today,” Barbara pouts.

 

“We promise we won’t make you look like Turkeys, even if the recipe is Greek to you!”

 

Trixie and Barbara high-five at their groan-worthy puns, as the contestants groan over the prospect of making filo without any sort of precise instruction.

 

“I think the only upside to this is that the pistachios are already shelled,” Peter grumbles.

 

“And that, in theory, all of us are safe from elimination this week, if we all muck it up equally,” Timothy offers.

 

Phyllis claps her hands in encouragement.

 

“That’s the spirit, lads! All in solidarity!”

 

It’s one of the more challenging technicals thus far- Patsy has made filo dough before, but never baklava specifically. She’s certainly eaten more than her fair share, though, and she recalls the memory of different textures and flavours to guide her judgment.

 

The difficulty of today’s techniques has kept her mind of Delia, and she thinks she’s done a fair job of being equally friendly with most of the other contestants. The bond of the tent is a little stronger today, with a great number of everyone’s thoughts with Enid and her welfare. It’s callous to think that the events are a distraction from the narrative the EP had been setting up for her and Delia, but Patsy can’t help but feel the tiniest bit relieved that her dignity is off of the chopping block, for the moment at least.

 

Timothy’s Filo is altogether too thick, putting him at the bottom, followed by Jenny, whose nuts were a gummy paste instead of a delicious filling. Peter and Delia follow, and Patsy and Shelagh round out the middle of the pack. Julienne, as usual, compiles one of the best technical challenges, but Phyllis’s extensive world travels have given her the edge of authenticity, and she credits a “wonderful trip to Istanbul and a wonderfully handsome Turk” for her victory.

 

“Phyllis, do you reckon I could bribe you for the lion’s share of your stories”

 

Delia waggles an eyebrow suggestively.

 

“I prefer red wine to white, and dark chocolate to milk. But otherwise I’m not hard to please.”

 

It seems no one really wants to keep to themselves this evening, and the eight end up circled around a large table, listening to Phyllis tell tales of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Great Wall, and Machu Picchu.

 

“I decided that if marriage and motherhood wasn’t in the cards, then I would live exactly as I pleased. And in fact, I met my Andrew on a bicycle tour of Italy. He was ten years younger than I, but I was a good deal faster than he.”

 

“I want to be her when I grow up,” Delia whispers in Patsy’s ear, tongue loosened by a couple of glasses of Barolo.

 

“She’s certainly an inspiration,” Patsy affirms, leaning ever-so-slightly into Delia’s side.

 

(She’s wearing a loose jumper that drapes off of one shoulder, and somehow, she makes shapeless _Flashdance_ costumery look positively mouthwatering. )

Patsy gulps down the remainder of her own glass, trying not to choke at the way that Delia’s muscles ripple when she stretches her arms above her head, yawning.

 

“Phyllis, just listening to your travels makes me tired. I don’t know how you do it.”

 

“We aren’t all meant to be nomads, girl. But if I’m not mistaken, I sense a bit of wanderlust in you, as well.”

 

“If by that you mean I would do anything to move out of my parent’s house and into a place where there are more people than sheep, then yes, absofuckinglutely.”

 

Timothy’s eyes light up.

 

“It’s not unheard of for contestants to leverage their appearance on _GBBF_ into a book deal, if not a television show. Surely you could springboard that into moving to London?”

 

“As my mam says, don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched. And I love Wales, I’m just ready for a change…” Delia looks at Patsy pointedly before realizing she hasn’t quite finished her thought.

 

“Phyllis, I think this has worked out backwards of how I’ve planned. You’ve gotten me well on my way to pissed and I’ve begun spilling all of my secrets. I suppose I ought to call it a night.”

 

Frankly, they’d all been looking for an excuse to hit the hay, and everyone disperses. Patsy feels a bit of responsibility for Delia, and waves off Peter as he moves to walk with them back to the hotel.

 

“I’m honestly not  drunk at all,” Delia laughs, “I just kind of wanted to get out of there.”

 

“Understandable. Two’s company, eight’s a stampede, as they say.”

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you this week. I was a bit cross with you. And me. And the producers. Okay, I’m a bit buzzed.”

 

Patsy laughs.

 

“No need to apologize, Deels, if anyone ought to, it’s me, for treating you so strangely. You didn’t deserve any of my baggage.”

 

Delia shrugs, in understanding.

 

“This is all very weird, isn’t it. We’re like zoo animals. Who happen to be very good at baking. Less shedding, and all, which is good for Antonia and Patrick, but very much in captivity for the next few weekends.”

 

Patsy pantomimes writing.

 

“Red wine makes Delia Busby into the world’s greatest philosopher… duly noted.”

 

“Oh, hush. Well, here we are.” They stop outside of Delia’s door, lingering awkwardly.

 

“I’m not actually tired,” Delia pouts, leaning against the frame.

 

“Me neither.”

 

Patys stares down at her painted fingernails, grasped tightly against her palms.

 

“Do you want to come in?”

 

Patsy must look as white as a ghost, for Delia quickly follows up.

 

“Just to chat, I mean. But, well, the floor is uncomfortable, and I have a feeling you’d just as soon not have Jenny deciding it’s time for a slumber party or whathaveyou.”

 

Patsy smiles, instantly relaxed by Delia’s decision to carry on as if nothing untoward or out of the ordinary was happening.

  
“I’d love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, if you're american, I hope you're registered to vote! deadline in VA is 10/17 <3 
> 
> (i mean, if you live anywhere with elections, i hope you're registered to vote, but i am currently devoting a lot of my free time and energy to the u.s. democratic party, so if updates come slower in the coming weeks it's only because i am trying to do my part to avert the apocalypse <3 )


	8. I'll Be Here in the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 4, day 2. 
> 
> Slumber parties, care packages, and croquembouches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally took a 4 hour nap tonight and then woke up and wrote this, so it is likely nothing but errors. 
> 
> <3 <3 <3

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Delia lilts as she guides Patsy to sit opposite her on the bed. There’s a chair available, as well as a cozy loveseat, but the spacious king mattress leaves plenty of room for them both to sprawl out without qute touching. 

 

“I wish I had room in my flat for a bed this big,” Patsy sighs, running her hand over the quilt. 

 

“I mean, I could fit it, but it would look rather ridiculous, me somersaulting over the mattress to get in and out of the wardrobe.” 

 

Delia smiles at the visual. 

 

“I don’t know, I kind of like a smaller frame. It’s very conducive to cuddling, saves on your heating bill in the winter, you know?”

“Delia, your pragmatism is downright inspiring. Really, it’s amazing the sacrifices you’re willing to make for our environment. Bravo,” Patsy deadpans. 

 

Bantering with Delia is astoundingly easy. Patsy is used to only being able to flirt successfully with people she couldn’t care less about- it’s the most useless skill, save for working with especially rambunctious gerontology patients. But there’s something about the feisty brunette that puts her at ease, lowering her inhibitions, for better or for worse. 

 

“Well, I’ll have you know, it’s much more difficult to find cuddle partners when one lives at home with one’s parents in rural Wales. And when one is a lesbian.” 

 

Patsy scoffs. 

 

“Oh, I’m certain you have no trouble finding willing hosts for sleepovers.” 

 

Delia shrugs noncommittally. 

 

“I can’t say I’ve never tried to, but I’m just not a one-night stand kind of girl. I suppose I’m a bit old-fashioned in that way. My dad says ‘ _ Busby’s mate for life _ .’ ” 

 

She raises a challenging brow as her eyes meet Patsy’s. 

 

“What about you?” 

 

Patsy coughs on the tepid glass of water she’s sipping (one hangover this month is plenty- she’s not getting any younger). 

 

“Do you live with anyone, I mean. No need to tell me about any one night stands you may or may not have had.” 

 

“Right. Um, I rent a flat by myself right now in East London. Perks of my latest promotion, I could finally afford to live without flatmates. Just me and the cat, I’m afraid.” 

 

Silence descends for a moment, and Patsy recalls the conversation at dinner. 

 

“Do you really want to move away from home, to the city?” 

 

Delia’s eyes light up, like she’s been waiting to talk to someone about this for ages. 

 

“More than anything. It would be hard, I know, and my mam would be absolutely heartbroken, but I just feel like with every day I spend in Pembrokeshire, my chances of ever leaving diminish. And sure, the gay thing is part of it, but I also just want to  _ experience  _ more, you know, meet people who don’t look like me, or talk like me, or think like me. I want to meet people who  _ challenge _ me. “ 

 

“You’ve put a lot of thought into it?” 

 

She nods. 

 

“At first, I figured I might go to medical school and practice in London or Birmingham, but I don’t know, if Timothy’s right and I end up continuing on in the competition, it might be nice to try to bake for a living.” 

 

“You’ve certainly got the charm to be a presenter.” 

 

Delia’s dimples nearly leap off her face. 

 

“Why,  _ thank you _ . If only the British public were as enticing an audience as one Patience Mount.” 

 

Patsy frowns, semi-serious.

 

“ _ No one calls me that _ . Well, only my mother, and she’s been dead twenty years. Where’s  _ your  _ excuse?” 

 

Delia laughs uproariously at the dark humour, and flops back on the bed in a corpse pose. 

 

“Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve been dead for two hundred? There’s a reason the tent is kept so cold- any warmer and I start to stink.” 

 

Patsy, feeling liberated, lies down beside her, audibly sniffing. 

 

“Eh, you only smell like you’ve been decomposing for fifty years, tops.” 

 

“Must be the new deodorant I’m using. I’ll have to send them a letter or something! ‘ _ Strong enough for a corpse, made for a woman.’”  _

 

Patsy hasn’t honest-to-goodness giggled like this since she was five years old. 

 

“You were wrong about us being in a zoo, I think.” 

 

“Oh? I’m very seldom wrong.” 

 

(They’re both staring up at the ceiling, but Patsy can feel Delia’s playful smirk.) 

 

“Well, at a zoo, the animals don’t leave. Sure, they’re privy to all kinds of surveillance, but it’s a long-term situation. This is more like summer camp.” 

 

“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t go to summer camp. But I did watch  _ The Parent Trap  _ every day when I was 6, so, I believe I can follow your analogy. _ ”  _

 

“I mean, you meet people, and connect instantly, and you think that you’ll be friends forever, but it never really works out that way does it? No one really writes after a few weeks, and it goes back to the status quo. You could be an entirely different person for the summer, and then fall comes, and it’s right on back to hiding in the shadows.” 

 

Delia hums empathetically. 

 

“Sounds a bit like someone broke your heart at summer camp.” 

 

“Worse. Boarding school. But you do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” 

 

Delia props up on one elbow to look down at Patsy’s troubled expression. 

 

“I think you’re saying that you can’t rightly trust me to not just disappear on you when all is said and done.” 

 

Patsy nods, meekly. 

 

“And I think you’re entirely wrong about that, but I also think that actions speak louder than words.” 

 

Delia peers at Patsy, searching her eyes for some confirmation of understanding, trying to convey how much she cares about her, conventional timelines be damned. 

 

“Now, what was that about Boarding School? Was it an all-girls’ situation?” 

 

Patsy huffs, grateful the fire has been taken off of her. 

 

“I promise it was entirely not what you’re thinking. You’d think I’d have had a field day with so many women around and no male competition, but between my emotional baggage and the downright cattiness of my peers, it was a fairly miserable experience. Hell, I was so afraid of being ostracized that I didn’t even kiss a girl until university.” 

 

“Were the courses at least good?” 

 

“Other than the ridiculous religious requirements, yes. It was a Catholic school. Which also rather complicated the snogging girls bit.” 

“The only time I’ve ever kissed a boy was in grammar school- I realized the best way to get the boys to stop picking on us was to threaten them with affection, so I gathered up a rogue band of girls and we let them have it.” 

 

Patsy grins at the idea of tiny feminist Delia terrorizing bullies. She absentmindedly checks her watch before blanching at the time. 

 

“Shit. It’s half-past midnight. I should really go to bed.” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

Delia yawns and stretches lazily, her jumper riding up to expose the pale skin of her stomach. 

 

(Patsy doesn’t notice. That much.) 

 

“But the mere idea of getting up right now is exhausting.”

 

“Don’t do it.” 

 

“You’re incredibly persuasive, you know that?” 

 

“I absolutely do. But seriously, Pats, just stay here. We could both starfish without risking the slightest bit of contact. And I promise I won’t use my feminine wiles for anything untoward.” 

 

Patsy cringes as Delia reaches to turn off the lamp. 

 

“Am I that obvious?” 

 

“That you’re terrified of me? A bit. It’s rather cute, to be honest. I’m not very used to devastatingly gorgeous women becoming flustered in my presence- it’s immensely flattering.” 

 

Patsy feels like her cheeks must be glowing in the dark from the compliment, but she’s too tongue-tied to think of a response. She merely wills her heart to quell its racing, and before she can think better of the decision to stay, she’s fast asleep. 

_ 

 

Patsy wakes alone. 

 

For the first moment, she thinks she’s in her own room (after all, the layout is practically the same) before Delia’s untidiness triggers her memories of the night before. Laid out on the night stand next to her is a hastily scrawled note.

 

_ morning , pats!  _

_ I promise i haven’t abandoned you- just had to be up early to take care of a few things. See you in the tent.  _

 

_ (sorry if I snored- I’ve been told wine has that effect on me.)  _

 

_ -Deels  _

 

Patsy frowns at the revelation that she’s slept in yesterday’s clothes, and unlike week 1, she hasn’t prepared a duplicate copy of her kit. Fortunately, she’s got a few hours to tame the rats’ nest that was formerly her hair before the cameras roll again. 

 

Everyone but Delia is at the tent ahead of schedule, milling about and debating whether anyone will actually be eliminated today. No one else has seen the brunette, even Timothy admits to skipping their morning run and going for double helpings at breakfast instead. 

 

She jogs up just before the final call, looking a bit harried but sporting a broad grin. 

 

“Morning, comrades!” 

 

“What have you been up to, Delia?” Peter inquires. 

 

Delia purses her lips mysteriously. 

 

“You’ll find out in good time.” 

 

Trixie and Barbara bound in and corral the bakers at the front of the tent. 

 

“It’s crunch time, ladies and gents- or croque-temps, as it were. Today, Antonia and Patrick want to see your finest croquembouches.” 

 

“Fill your choux pastry with whatever you desire, but use at least one element of sugar work in the final presentation. You’ve got three hours. Allons-y!”

 

After the ups and downs of the eclairs, most everyone has a better grasp on their choux. Perhaps it’s because the stakes might be lower, but the slightly less looming threat of elimination seems to bring out the best in all the bakers. 

 

Louise adds ganache to her tower, using a white chocolate cream in her profiteroles that Antonia praises for its rich sweetness (though Patrick finds it ever so slightly cloying). Jenny’s strawberry-infused choux also wins high marks, and her quiet pride is a stark contrast to earlier emotionality. 

 

No one is overwhelmingly awful, though Timothy’s tower does end up slightly uneven as his heavy filling causes his profiteroles to sink. They taste lovely, however, which is always a saving grace in Antonia’s book. 

 

Delia’s mint-green pistachio christmas tree is something to behold, indeed, although Patrick fears it has “more personality than flavour.” 

 

Patsy’s additional macarons are described as “little bits of heaven, gifted to us mere mortals by the grace of your hands,” so she’s actually feeling quite confident today. 

 

Phyllis’s sugar work is masterful- caramel that seemingly defies the laws of physics, which allows Patrick to glance over her traditionally safe flavours.

 

Peter and Shelagh both opt for citrusy creams, though Shelagh’s use of orange and chocolate makes a better impression than Peter’s lemon. 

 

When they break for deliberation, Delia gathers the group around. 

 

“I know a lot of you have deadlines this evening, and I don’t want to ask anyone to stay late if they don’t want to, but I’ve talked to the producers about getting some extra time in the kitchen today. I thought we could all make our very best bakes to send to Enid, as a sort of care package. The runners have already gotten all the extra ingredients we need.” 

 

So that’s where she was this morning. 

 

Naturally, no one objects in the slightest to staying a few hours late- besides, with the need for takeaway shots they can all easily help each other finish bakes while others are filming. 

 

Louise volunteers to deliver the finished product. 

 

“I think Enid would be a bit overwhelmed if we all showed up, and I’ve probably got a bit more flexibility in my schedule than you younger folks.” 

 

“I don’t mind traveling with you- It would take at least two people to carry all the food to her anyhow,” Phyllis interjects. 

 

“So that’s settled! We’ll get onto it once Trix and Babs make their announcement.” 

 

Barbara quickly summons them back to the tent. 

 

“Although the news about Enid is very unfortunate, I’m happy to say that Patrick and Antonia have decided to show mercy and keep you all to the next challenge, seeing as you all rose to the occasion today.” 

 

“Which leaves only a happy surprise to end with,” Trixie continues. 

 

“Our winner this week delivered impeccable choux, delicious flavours, and ganached her way to victory. Congratulations, Louise!” 

 

The older woman beams as the others congratulate her, Timothy and Jenny heaving sighs of relief that they were spared from the chopping block today. 

 

“A little birdie tells me that you all have volunteered to bake  _ even more  _ for our friend, Enid. Frankly, I’m amazed you don’t want to set the ovens on fire by this point in the weekend, but I am thoroughly inspired and awed by your kindness. You’re a lovely bunch of contestants, and it’s been an honor getting to know you all.” 

 

Barbara and Trixie shake everyone’s hand and thank them for going the extra mile, though unfortunately, their other obligations prevent them from sticking around for the baking. 

 

Patsy corners Delia as they sort out who’s making what and who’s shooting when. 

 

“And here I thought you were sneaking off this morning for nefarious purposes.” 

 

“Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. But my mam always says if you want something done, do it yourself, so when I heard you suggest a care package yesterday, I thought I’d talk to the powers that be and see what we could do.” 

 

She looks a bit shy at the attention, like it’s obvious that anyone would do the same in her shoes. Feeling emboldened, Patsy gives Delia’s hand a firm squeeze. 

 

“Well, I’m awfully impressed. You’re a keeper, aren’t you?” 

 

Delia grins. 

 

“I’d like to think so.” 

 

As Barbara and Trixie pile into their sedan and head out, they glance at the two women sharing a moment as the world spins madly around them. Barbara pulls a goofy double thumbs up as Trixie rolls her eyes at Patsy and Delia’s complete obliviousness to the world around them. 

 

“Oh, to be young and in love.” 

 

“Trixie, we’re only a few years older than them!” 

 

“But hopelessly single.” 

 

“You always have to hit home with the truth, don’t you?” 

_ 

 

In the end, they’re only about an hour later heading back to the city- with everyone working together, baking goes much more quickly, and besides, Enid has made it clear that presentation is not a priority of hers. Louise and Phyllis each share their seats with baskets full of breads and cakes and biscuits, sprinkled with notes of encouragement and sympathy from the bakers. Peter leads the group in a rousing rendition of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” in Delia’s honor, and it feels a world of difference from yesterday’s worry and sorrow. 

 

Patsy is reminded of her mother’s wisdom after coming home teary-eyed from a horrible day at school. 

 

_ “Sometimes a good night’s sleep can change everything for the better.”  _

 

Looking at the fading light illuminating Delia’s joyful face, Patsy’s inclined to agree. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe there's only one week left of GBBO! What will get me through the next 18 days of US election season? But seriously, thank you all for your support and encouragement, both for this fic and fighting fake-tan fascism. #teamcandice


	9. People Will Say We're In Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 5, day 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> props to @gigi_nutshell and @whenthecanonshootsonlyblanks for their plot contributions ;)

 

Sister Mary Cynthia always greets Patsy with enthusiastic rubbing against her legs when she returns from  _ Baking Fete  _ weekends. She’s got many pairs of trousers covered in grey cat hair, but the unconditional love of a pet is a nice constant. 

 

M.C. earned her name from her white facial markings, which bore a striking resemblance to the habits worn by Patsy’s school instructors. Though Mary Cynthia is invariably more kind than the sisters. Not as good a fencer as Mother Gertrude, but quite skilled in catching a laser pointer. 

 

Patsy snaps a selfie of the two of them curled up on the couch and sends it to Delia. 

 

_ Told her about your selfless deeds of cakery. She says “meow purrr squonk,” which I interpret to mean “well, if you’re going to abandon me for DAYS at a time, at least you’re keeping noble company.”  _

 

Her heart falls a bit when no response follows (honestly, if Delia were a cat hater that might very well cure her of this foolish crush). However, Delia makes up for her belatedness with enthusiasm. 

 

**Omggggggg what a cutie! (the cat is adorable, too ;) ) i am flattered that this elegant creature deems me ‘noble,’ do you think she would be willing to be a character witness to my mam?**

 

_ Sister Mary Cynthia does not care for travel, but perhaps she could be deposed within the confines of her own home.  _

 

**but of course! i would never dream of burdening a woman of the cloth with undue hardships**

 

Delia trades photos of her dogs, and they swap horror stories about pet-driven kitchen mishaps until sleep beckons Patsy to bid adieu to the green glowing light of her phone screen. 

_

 

Barbara is decked out in full American Football regalia as she and Trixie film the opening shots of this week’s episode, head barely visible above the bulky shoulderpads of her jersey. 

 

“Babs, it’s  _ griddle week,  _ not  _ gridiron.”  _

 

“You mean I went through all this trouble with props for nothing?” 

 

“I’m afraid so, sweetie, but the eye black is a very good look for you. Very tough, very intimidating.” 

 

“Well, bakers, it would appear that I’ve made a proper fool of myself, but hopefully the same can’t be said for you! Patrick and Antonia want you to heat up your griddles and serve up your best spin on a Welsh Cake.”

 

Trixie takes the handoff seamlessly, as it were. 

 

“While the traditional recipe is sweetened with caster sugar and flavoured with currants, you’re free to break the mold with savoury or sweet flavours. Just make a dozen, and make them delicious!” 

 

Barbara assumes the quarterback position, as Trixie lines up beside her. 

 

“Hut, hut, BAAAAAKEEEEEE!” 

_

 

It’s a little strange to be baking without the ovens this week, practice or no. Griddles can be temperamental, and intuition will play a much bigger role than normal today. Patsy’s always felt she has rather shit instincts. 

 

“If I don’t do well today, they might not let me come back home,” Delia quips to Barbara. 

 

“That is the trouble of having a strong cultural identity, isn’t it? The burden of representation. No one really expects much of us Liverpudlians- Bubble and Squeak doesn’t really command the finest culinary sensibilities.” 

 

“I think you’d probably have more trouble in a musical competition, certainly.” 

 

Barbara opens her mouth to start her best Paul McCartney impression when Trixie interjects. 

 

“Delia, for everyone’s sake, don’t get her started singing.” 

  
  


There’s a practiced quiet as everyone weighs their ingredients and mixes their dough, severed only by a well placed comment for the cameras. They’ve all fallen into the rhythm of serving up sound bites as they bake, and what felt like chaos in week 1 is now a well-larded machine. 

 

Delia steals pieces of Patsy’s dough as she waits for her pan to heat. 

 

Barbara shakes her head forlornly. 

 

“Honestly, between the quips and food pilfering it’s like you’re trying to push us out of a job, Delia. What’s next? Calling out time?” 

 

“One hour left to go, bakers!” 

 

“Incorrigible,” Trixie mutters, stalking away for a cigarette.

 

Patsy finds that she prefers yeast-less bakes; she’s always hated waiting more than anything. It’s so much easier to deal with a certain disaster than to await a questionable fate. The action of the morning is brisk, in both cooking and commentary, and the sizzle of everyone’s griddle adds a liveliness to the tent. 

 

“You’ve got excellent flipping technique there Patsy,” Barbara comments. 

 

“It’s all in the wrist you know. Thought truth be told, I’m just glad I’m not flipping out.” 

 

Peter is having less luck with his dough, half of his cakes appearing incredibly burnt while the rest are more blonde than golden. 

 

“I’m not much of a griddle man, I must admit. Pancakes are the only thing my wife is better at cooking than me.” 

 

It’s a bit inevitable that he falls at the bottom of the pack. Jenny’s fruitcake inspired dough is too chewy for Antonia, who bemoans that “If these candied fruits  rob me of my molars, how shall I taste what other offerings may be presented to me?” 

 

(Barbara actually has to pull her aside and assure her that her dental work is, in fact, intact, before she can go on.) 

 

Delia keeps to a traditional recipe (it’s only proper, after all,) and Patrick praises her skill in achieving the perfectly crisp outer edge. 

 

“It’s all in the lard- perhaps some people would turn up their nose at it, but you really can’t get an adequate texture without it.” 

 

Phyllis, however, eschews lard in favor of Olive Oil. (She is nothing if not principled.) She’s one of only two to opt for a savoury bake, flavouring her cakes with pureed beets and goat’s cheese. Antonia praises the earthiness of the creation, saying “your hearthstone could have been Gaia’s mantle, for these cakes taste of ashes, and dust, and the circuitous nature of life.” 

 

Patsy joins her in abandoning convention, presenting a dozen perfectly uniform sundried tomato and kalamata olive cakes. 

 

“I’ve never even eaten a Welsh cake before, so I figured it was better to distance myself from any proper comparison.” 

 

“Well, your technique is flawless,” Patrick comments, around a hearty mouthful, “and the flavours really cuts through the density of the dough. Well done!” 

 

Louise’s cranberry orange cakes and Timothy’s lemon poppyseed recipe are both deemed adequate, albeit inconsistently baked. 

 

Jenny has somehow managed both a perfectly crisp outside and an incredibly raw center, much to her consternation. 

 

Shelagh’s vanilla and cardamom pod cakes earn a surprised hmmmmm of joy from Antonia, who praises her for “bringing a cleanliness to my palate after such an arduous journey.” 

 

When they break for lunch, Delia immediately tracks down Patsy, fire in her eyes. 

 

“You’ve never eaten a Welsh cake!? Honestly? I’m dragging you to Wales by force if I have to, Patsy! I don’t know that I’ve ever been so disappointed.” 

 

“Now Delia, kidnapping is illegal,” Peter cautions. 

 

“But, perhaps I could be persuaded to accept a civilized invitation,” Patsy concedes. 

 

Phyllis (who quickly purloined one of Patsy’s remaining cakes before the crew could demolish them) muses around a mouthful. 

 

“I first had Welsh cakes in Newport, in the company of a very handsome man by the name of Garth. It was actually part of his proposal, as the men of that area are wont to do, but I had to respectfully decline. They were absolutely delicious, though!” 

 

Delia’s consternation evaporates into a fit of giggles. 

 

“Honestly Phyllis, if you don’t write a screenplay of your life, I will.” 

 

She’s just about to ply them with more tales of pastry and paramours when the octet are summoned back to the tent. 

 

“Alright, Elite Eight! Today’s technical challenge is notoriously vexing. Antonia and Patrick want you to make eight identical muffins, using only the barest of recipes and your own knowledge.” 

 

The group groans in unison, all aware of just how many things could go wrong in the attempt to create a proper bake. The pending disasters should make for excellent television, however. 

 

The first split of dissension is whether to heat the milk for the batter or not. It’s about a half-and-half split on that front, with Patsy, Louise, Phyllis, and Shelagh carefully tempering the liquid so as not to scald their eggs, whilst the others leave their dairy room temperature. 

 

Then, of course, proving always leads to anxious stares around the room as no one wants to be first to uncover their dough and bake into parts unknown. 

 

Timothy starts humming “Do You Know the Muffin Man,” and then he and Delia end up playing pattycake as they wait on their proofs. 

 

Once the dough is out and shaped, the contestants roll the edges in cornmeal and take to the griddle. There’s a discrepancy in temperature selection, some opting for a hot griddle for a strong sear, while others aim for temperance for a thorough bake. 

 

Jenny’s end up rather lopsided and uneven, relegating her to the bottom. Peter and Shelagh’s bakes look better, but are missing the appropriate open texture inside. Louise, Delia, and Timothy round out the middle, with uniform sizes but slightly overdone/underdone finishes. Phyllis makes a strong showing for second, but in the end, Patsy’s meticulous weighing of each and every ingredient and fastidious attention to her griddle nets her the victory. 

 

She’s mainly grateful that she doesn’t topple over when Delia gives her a quick squeeze of congratulations. 

 

“This could be your week to win, Pats!”

 

She shrugs, confident in her abilities but wary of success nonetheless. 

 

“Who knows what tomorrow may bring. Other than more slaving over a hot stove.” 

 

“Is this where I make a trite joke about a woman’s place?” 

 

Patsy groans. 

 

“Not if you wish to remain in my good graces.” 

 

In what has become a default pattern, Patsy and Delia have fallen behind the group as they head back to change out of their floured clothes for dinner.  Delia slows their pace even further to revel in self-satisfaction. 

 

“So I’m in your good graces, then? Interesting…” 

 

“No need to be so smug about it. You send care packages to invalids and love animals. I should think it would reflect negatively upon me if I didn’t like you.” 

 

With each moment they spend in relative privacy, Patsy feels her self-restraint crumble. It would be so very easy to bridge the narrow gap between them, to reach out and touch Delia’s hand. 

 

Lord knows it would be satisfying to kiss the playful smirk off of her face. 

 

She’s nothing short of elated when Trixie and Barbara announce that they’re treating the entire group to dinner and drinks, giving her plenty of excuses to avoid Delia in the name of politesse. 

 

She inquires to Louise and Phyllis about their visit to Enid, and chats about music with Jenny and Shelagh. She jokes with Trixie and Barbara about Antonia’s eccentricities.  She embarasses Timothy and Peter in a round of darts. 

 

(She willfully ignores the hungry way Delia looks at her when she hits bullseye after bullseye.) 

 

Delia, for her part, keeps the whole group in stitches with her picture-perfect impressions of the judges, and her overly-posh critique of the greasy bar food. She’s charming and winsome and the life of the party, and Patsy thinks that maybe everyone who has ever met Delia Busby falls a bit in love with her. 

 

Who could blame them? 

 

She manages to keep her (seriously raging) hormones in check until they arrive back at their rooms. With the reshuffle of contestants, Patsy’s ended up next to Delia, and they linger at the end of the hall. 

 

“Well… good night, I suppose,” Patsy whispers, making no move whatsoever to open her door. 

 

Delia has this way of looking at her that says both  _ i can see right through your shit  _ and  _ i absolutely adore you.  _

 

She wrinkles her nose, eyes narrowing. Her head tilts to the right as her lips part ever so slightly. 

 

“I want to kiss you.” 

 

_ Oh.  _

 

Patsy manages a shaky inhale, so as not to fall in a heap on the (surely filthy) carpet. 

 

“You shouldn’t.” 

 

Delia nods resolutely, taking the smallest step backward. 

 

“I know. I just wanted to tell you. In fact, most of the time I want to kiss you.” 

 

If they were a bit more drunk, or a bit less public, Patsy would push Delia right up against the door and kiss her until they were both weak in the knees. 

 

But the walls here are thin, the odds of being caught too high. Patsy isn’t closeted, but she’s not exactly eager to be the subject of gossip, either. The judgment of the twittersphere is sure to be harsh enough without the pressure of keeping a secret hampering her performance. 

 

She realizes that she’s kept Delia waiting too long, and moves to speak before the brunette raises a hand to silence her. 

 

“Just, when all this is over, if you still want to kiss me, too… I think you should.” 

  
Delia makes a point not to touch her, smiling wanly as she quietly retires to her own room. Patsy follows suit, but her futile efforts at sleep are thwarted by visions of brilliant blue eyes and the phantom feel of lips smiling against her own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL I CRIED AT THE GBBO FINAL LIKE IT WAS AN EPISODE OF CALL THE MIDWIFE. 
> 
> (please let there be a film crew on Jane and Candice's road trip.)


	10. "You Turn Me On (I'm a Radio)"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 5, Day 2. 
> 
> pancaking over the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm, so we veer JUST A BIT into sexting territory here, but it's all innuendo, so i ain't changing the rating. 
> 
> (honestly, anyone who is on this site has already been exposed to filth SO)

 

Tim drags into breakfast the next morning, joining Patsy and Peter where they’re sat looking at photos of his son over coffee. 

 

“Delia is a madwoman today- usually I’ve got the advantage of youth and long legs, but she nearly broke me on our run!” 

 

Patsy could speculate as to the fuel of her fire, but Delia’s flushed face and heated stare when she catches her eye answer all her questions. She’s quick to turn bright and cheery to the fellows, however. 

 

“You’ve got to keep the kids on their toes you know- besides, I ate enough of Patsy’s dough yesterday that I had to really kick it up to burn off the calories.” 

 

“Well, if my legs give out in the tent today, you’re obligated to prop me up until my masterpiece is finished.” 

 

Delia gives him a firm handshake. 

 

“Deal.” 

 

She notes Peter’s photograph.

 

“Is that your son? He’s absolutely adorable!” 

 

“Freddie just turned two. He’s discovered the joy of running away from mummy and daddy. It’s exhausting.” 

 

Peter sounds beleaguered, but he grins in pride for his boy. 

 

“Oh, I just love little ones. They’re such fun! I think I might be a bit of a bad influence on my nieces and nephews, come to think of it…” 

 

Patsy clears her throat. 

 

“I’d like to think I’m a good influence on my cubs, but the little scamps don’t seem to take in a word I say most of the time.” 

 

Delia’s smirks. 

 

“You? A scout leader? Pics or it didn’t happen.” 

 

“Delia, I’ll have you know that I perform a lot of civic duties in my community. And you will never see me in my uniform if I have any say about it.” 

 

Timothy pipes up. 

 

“I was in cubs when I was a boy. My step-mum still has the photos on the walls, unfortunately…” 

 

Delia laughs. 

 

“Well, with those shorts, you might as well be in a troop!” 

_ 

 

Trixie greets the group in her usual garb, while today, Barbara wears a lumberjack costume, complete with fake facial hair. 

 

“Good morning, bakers! We’re not done with your griddles yet. Today’s challenge is to craft a masterpiece using only pancakes! Call them crepes, flapjacks, blini- we want them to be beautiful, three-dimensional, and most importantly, delicious.” 

 

“Now get flipping!” 

 

As everyone whisks their batter, Delia turns toward Trixie for small talk. 

 

“I’ve always thought pancakes are sort of the perfect morning after food. I’ve found pretty much everyone has the ingredients for pancakes lying about, and it’s always a well-received gesture.” 

 

Trixie nods, contemplatively. 

 

“What say you, bakers, do you agree with Delia’s assessment?” 

 

Timothy giggles. 

 

“I make them for my little sister.” 

 

“I make them for my husband, so I suppose that falls in line, given that every morning after is with him.” 

 

(Jenny, of course.) 

 

Shelagh: “I’m not a huge pancake fan, myself, but I’m hoping that doesn’t do me a disservice today. I do hope I do a Scotch pancake proud, though.” 

 

Peter: “I do like to eat them, but they’re really not my specialty.” 

 

Louise: “I make them for my grandchildren, and on shrove tuesday, that’s about it.” 

 

Phyllis sighs, dreamily. 

 

“I much prefer to have someone else make the pancakes for me whilst I lounge in bed.” 

 

After making her rounds, Trixie arrives at Patsy. 

 

“And what about you, Patsy?” 

 

She offers up her best nonchalance. 

 

“I don’t usually make pancakes after the first night. I can’t have everyone I meet falling in love with me- mine are  _ that good. _ ” 

 

“Well you’ve certainly set a high expectation for yourself. Best of luck in wooing the judges.” 

 

The competitors have gotten creative in their implements, some using frames for shaping, while others pipe batter into the appropriate designs. Each baker has a slew of plating props from home to jazz up the somewhat unimpressive pancakes once they reach their final destination. 

 

Patsy feels confident today, and her ingredients all appear to be cooperating as they should. She doesn’t even mind that she presents first. 

 

“I’ve made for you a sort of pancake oasis.” 

 

A blue mirror-glazed coconut pancake sits atop a larger, “sandy” crepe. A pureed-date “trunk” hoists a lime-green palm leaves, fashioned to notch one into the other and stand upright. 

 

“I wonder if I am seeing a mirage, for this vision appears to good to be true,” Antonia coos, before plucking a frond and smiling at its tart sweetness. 

 

“A truly impressive technical feat, Patsy. And delicious to boot.” 

 

Patrick gives her a handshake of congratulations. 

 

Delia has created a trompe l’oeil of “Bacon and Eggs,” each element a pancake flavoured and shaped to look just like its protein analogue. 

 

“The joke is very clever,” Patrick opines, “and the flavours strong, but I wish you would have been just a bit more ambitious in your construction.” 

 

Peter is just glad to have anything resembling pancakes; he’s attempted a sort of family portrait, but his batter has run until the people look somewhat shapeless. 

 

“I’m not very good with a griddle,” he apologizes. 

 

“The corpulence of these persons leads me to believe they are Americans on holiday in Great Britain,” Antonia asses, brow furrowed deep in thought.

 

“Please don’t tell my wife and son that they were meant to be the models.” 

 

Timothy has created a sort of “mad scientist” chemistry set, with bubbling maple foam and neon jams. 

 

“I’m a bit of a molecular gastronomy buff.” 

 

Antonia apparently does not care for such things. 

 

“This is artifice without substance. Foam will not sustain us through hard winters, young man.” 

 

Patrick cringes a little. 

 

“It’s beautiful technique, but the cakes themselves have been overwhelmed by the other elements.” 

 

Jenny’s  _ Leaning Tower of Pancakes _ meets the height requirements, but isn’t otherwise noteworthy. 

 

Shelagh has fashioned a pancake Nessie, flavoured with dark chocolate and emerging  from a murky raspberry jam loch. 

 

“I’ve always thought Nessie to be a gentle creature, who desired only peace and privacy. I am glad to meet her, even if she must be destroyed.” 

 

Antonia bows to the sculpture before taking a hearty portion of its head. 

 

Louise presents intricate lace doilies, an homage to her grandmother’s handiwork. 

 

“They’re exceptionally delicate,” Patrick compliments, “but I wish they had a bit more flavour- the thinness of the batter prevents the addition of very many ingredients.” 

 

Phyllis finishes out the round today, using doughs from around the world to create a map: Somalian  _ Laho,  _ Indian  _ Dosa,  _ Vietnamese  [ _ bánh xèo _ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B%C3%A1nh_x%C3%A8o) . 

 

“Truly, this is a cultural journey for the senses,” Antonia remarks. “It is incredible how many things woman and griddle can accomplish when they work in harmony.” 

_ 

 

Peter looks a bit forlorn as they stretch their legs and eat lunch during deliberation. 

 

“I guess this is my week to go.” 

 

“Oh, don’t say that,” Delia assures, “it’s not a certain thing.” 

 

He shrugs. 

 

“Honestly, I was shocked to make it past the first week- the rest has all been just a pure treat. I will miss chatting with you all, though, let’s stay in touch, allright?” 

 

“Of course,” Patsy agrees. 

 

She finds herself, somewhat shockingly, meaning it. Middle aged fathers aren’t her usual friend circle, but Peter is a kind man, and it’s not like they live terribly far from one another anyhow. 

 

“This could be your week to win, Patsy.” 

 

“Oh, I don’t know, Phyllis always gives a strong showing. And Delia had a good week as well.” 

 

Delia grins. 

 

“I might have nailed the welsh cake, but you were absolutely brilliant today, Pats.” 

 

“I don’t like to count my chickens before they’ve hatched.” 

 

_

 

In the end, Peter is entirely accurate in his predictions, and he hugs everyone tight as he bids adieu to the tent.  

 

Phyllis gives Patsy a tight squeeze and says “I can’t be mad at losing to that, Patsy. Beautiful work today,” and Delia smiles like she won herself. 

 

Being the victor means longer exit interviews, and Patsy muses on the weekend to the cameras. 

 

“In all honesty, I would never have thought this would have been my week to win, but I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I don’t want to get ahead of myself for next week, but it does feel very nice, I must admit.” 

 

Maybe it’s the rush of the victory, or the realization that she might not just forget all these other people when all is said and done, but Patsy can’t help but send Delia a quick message before she heads to bed. 

 

**_For what it’s worth, I would absolutely make you pancakes in the morning._ **

 

She means it more as a testament to how much more than a one night stand Delia means to her, but apparently, her words have an unintended effect. 

 

_ honestly, pats, are you trying to kill me _

 

**_No, Delia, I’m trying to offer you breakfast._ **

 

_ a;lfkasdflsl;afkl;;dks;;adflklsaadf _

 

_ because that wouldn’t make me at all think of anything that would hypothetically transpire the night before  _

 

_ Jesus.  _

 

Oh. Right. That. 

 

And, in addition to  _ that,  _ Patsy now has the mental image of a sexually frustrated Delia burned into her head. Frustrated by  _ her.  _

 

It’s intoxicating. 

 

Patsy may not be one for taking risks, but she’s also exceptionally good at rationalizing behaviors to herself. 

 

**_Maybe I like to plan ahead before I make decisions… I like to know what I’m getting into._ **

 

_ don’t you mean WHO you’re getting into?  _

 

**_If that’s how you like it, sure._ **

 

_ PATSY.  _

 

Maybe she’s crossed a line. 

 

**_I’m sorry, Delia, I’ll stop. I don’t know what’s come over me. Chalk it up to winner’s high?_ **

 

_ i don’t want you to stop.  _

_ but for both our sakes, yes, we probably should  _

 

Patsy is equal parts turned-on and horrified by how quickly their flirtation has nosedived into straight-up sexting. 

 

**_Honestly, i’m a bit embarrassed right now. I don’t usually do this sort of thing._ **

 

_ you’ve got a natural talent for it, that’s for sure.  _

 

**_Thank you? I think. I’m glad you find my communication style effective._ **

 

_ seriously, pats, i might actually die if i keep thinking about you COMMUNICATING with me.  _

 

**_Please don’t die, Delia, not before I have the chance to communicate in person._ **

 

_ all i can say is  _

 

_ if this is the way you celebrate victory  _

 

_ i will throw the bloody final in your favor  _

  
  


So much for boundaries and impartiality. 

 

**_Goodnight, Deels. I hope you have absolutely splendid dreams._ **

 

_ Hhmmmmphphhhhh _

 

_ i hate you  _

 

**_I’m sorry._ **

 

_ no, you’re not, and i honestly LOVE that.  _

 

_ but i hate you right now.  _

 

_ just know _

 

_ i am excellent at plotting revenge  _

 

_ so  _

 

_ brace yourself _

Patsy dreams of revenge all night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully i gave you a bit of what you want without undoing the tension i've worked so hard to build up ;) 
> 
> seriously, your comments are a bright spot, and with only 9 days until election day I NEED ALL THE BRIGHTNESS I CAN MUSTER. 
> 
> (Fwiw, I make incredible pancakes, too.)


	11. Red, Red Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 6, day 1. 
> 
> (ANGST CITY, POPULATION: PUPCAKE)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um this is longer and melodramatic 
> 
> but you lot like that sort of thing, right? 
> 
> <3

Delia has no way of knowing. 

 

It’s not like Patsy had given her any sort of warning; a polite heads-up:

 

**_(“oh, hey, you might want to give me a wide berth on Tuesday, seeing as I’ll be avalanching my sorrows in red wine and chocolate. It’s my mother’s birthday, but she’s dead, so, you know..._ ** **” )**

 

Delia texts her in the morning, before she’s had a chance to even uncork the bottles. 

 

_ so  _

 

_ something happened yesterday that got me thinking…  _

 

_ about us, i mean? _

 

_ i was out on a call to help an elderly woman who fell, and her granddaughter sort of asked me out, and my instinctual response was “oh, thank you, i’m very flattered, but i’ve got a girlfriend.”  _

 

_ except i don’t, do i?  _

 

_ i mean, clearly, i fancy you, and you fancy me  _

 

_ but we haven’t put labels on it yet  _

 

_ and i don’t want to pressure you into any sort of commitment  _

 

_ it’s just kind of a strange situation we’re in i suppose.  _

 

When she doesn’t answer immediately: 

 

_ Oh dear you are probably birthing babies right now! sorry for rambling xox  _

 

Patsy registers the deluge of messages as they come in, but chooses to ignore them, in favour of opening a bottle of pinot noir and starting her annual movie marathon. Her mother’s favourite was Cary Grant, and they would often have film nights in, watching classics in their pyjamas and eating ice cream straight from the carton.

 

364 days of the year, Patsy honors the memory of her Mother by living as kindly as she can, helping others when possible, and never, ever taking anything for granted. 

 

Today, she wallows, and sentamentalises, and quotes dialogue verbatim back at the telly.

During  _ Arsenic and Old Lace,  _ Delia apparently feels a wave of remorse (unlike the Brewster Sisters).. 

 

_ i didn’t mean to overwhelm you- it’s not like you to stay quiet…  _

_ i hope you’re having a splendid day <3  _

  
  


As  _ The Philadelphia Story  _ drones on, she can’t help but feel like Delia is a bit of a C.K. Dexter Haven. What is she trying to get out of her? Jealousy? A declaration of love? Her father’s inheritance? 

 

(It never occurs to her that Delia could just be honest and open to a fault.) 

 

Halfway through  _ His Girl Friday  _ she’s feeling empowered by Hildy’s sass (and the buzz she’s developed) to really give Delia a piece of her mind. 

 

**_You know what Delia? Just go on the date._ **

 

**_It’s not like we have anything in common besides pastries_ **

 

**_And everyone always ends up abandoning me in the end anyways- might as well cut to the chase, eh?_ **

 

And perhaps Delia is on her own work call, for Patsy is well and truly drunk by the time she reaches  _ Bringing up Baby,  _ and there’s been no response. So naturally, she sends her another tirade. 

 

**_I mean, you’re PERFECT, delia. With your perfect dimpls and your perfect bum and your perfect laugh that LITERALLY sounds like sunshine_ **

 

**_So you really have no busines being interested in me_ **

 

**_Except maybe for a quick fuck_ **

 

**_Or are you hoponig to leverage the publicity from an onscreen romance into a deal with the bbc?_ **

 

**_IS THIS ALL A MIND GAME TO DEFEAT ME?_ **

 

**_Because i thnik ist wokrning_ **

  
  


Of course,  _ now _ Delia is lightning quick to respond. 

 

_ Patsy, are you drunk?  _

 

**_Very_ **

 

_ It’s three in the afternoon  _

 

**_It would appear so, yes_ **

 

(Apparently being called on her shit has a sobering effect, if spelling is any indication.)

 

_ Is everything okay?  _

 

**_I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t you have a date to go on?_ **

 

_ honestly, i wish you could see me rolling my eyes right now. i don’t WANT to go on a date. not with anyone but you.  _

 

**_Pshhhhhhhhhhhh_ **

 

**_That’s silly_ **

 

**_I’m lousy_ **

 

_ Patsy, if you don’t reciprocate, all you have to do is say so. no need to accuse me of trying to take advantage of you. i would never do such a thing.  _

 

_ And you are not at all lousy, though you’re being a bit of a twat at the moment.  _

 

And because the thought of being genuinely seen and loved for exactly who she is is infinitely more terrifying than spending the rest of her days alone (except for Mary Cynthia, god love her), Patsy sends the next message without hesitation. 

 

**_Fine. I’m not interested and I wish you would leave me alone._ **

 

_ your wish is my command. i hope you feel better.  _

 

She doesn’t feel better at all. She feels like absolute shit. 

 

Fortunately, Tony barges through the front door with his copied key just as she’s about to burst into tears. 

 

“I thought you might need checking up on.” 

 

“But *sniffle* tonight *hiccup* is twink tuesdays.” 

 

She collapses into a heap against Tony’s shoulder on the loveseat. 

 

“There will be other Tuesdays, love. I came as soon as I got off work. If you don’t mind me asking, you seem a bit more melodramatic than the quiet melancholy I’m used to. Do you want to talk about it?” 

 

“Why does everyone keep asking that? No I don’t want to talk about anything. Talking gets me into trouble. I should just keep my bloody mouth shut.” 

 

His brow wrinkles in concern. 

 

“Patsy?” 

 

Her resolve crumbles much more quickly than usually given her still-significant level of intoxication. 

 

“Delia essentially asked me to be her girlfriend and i told her to go away and leave me alone and also accused her of manipulating my feelings for her so she can get a tv deal.” 

 

“Oh, dear.” 

 

“I’m a fuckwit.” 

 

“Be kind to yourself.” 

 

“Fine. I acted like a fuckwit.” 

 

“That’s better.” 

 

The tears have ebbed somewhat, and Patsy sits back on the couch to stare blearily at the leopard in Katharine Hepburn’s arms. 

 

“I should call her! Tell her what a fuckwit I am!” 

 

Tony quickly grabs her phone before she can do any such thing. 

 

“I think that you might have done enough for today. Maybe you can wait to make amends until you’re sober?” 

 

Patsy pouts, but doesn’t attempt to reach for the confiscated device. 

 

“Just for that, I’m making you sit through all of  _ Sylvia Scarlett.”  _

_

 

Patsy isn’t sure which is worse- the hangover or the remorse. 

 

Both last longer than they should, and the usual remedies don’t seem to do the trick. 

 

Patsy keeps opening her messages and typing drafts to send, but she chickens out at the last moment each and every time. She might have been drunk, but she was perfectly clear in the message she sent Delia. It doesn’t matter that she was distancing herself out of self-preservation and insecurity, she was still unnecessarily cruel. And she can’t even begin to formulate a proper apology. 

 

True to her word, Delia stays away. 

 

It’s torture. 

 

All her practice bakes turn out like rubbish, too. Because why should egg whites cooperate when her heart and mind won’t? 

 

By the weekend, Patsy is at least able to tamp down her emotions enough to focus on her baking. Delia looks at her with concern when they board the bus on Saturday morning, but keeps her distance. Patsy sides in along Jenny, who makes it easy to stare out the window and contemplate what a fool she is. 

 

“... Gerald says they’re the best macarons he’s ever had, but he’s much kinder than Antonia.” 

 

“Less cryptic too, I’m sure,” Patsy mumbles absentmindedly, twirling a loose strand of hair about her forefinger. 

_

 

Barbara stands on the open green with a full band behind her and a group of svelte dancers. 

 

Trixie rolls her eyes. 

 

“Babs. It’s  _ meringue _ week. Not  _ Merengue _ .”

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry guys! You’ll still be paid for your time! Hell, let’s have a bit of a dance anyhow.” 

 

(Trixie joins in much more enthusiastically when a particularly muscular gent offers to lead.)

 

“Well, bakers, now that that’s sorted, Antonia and Patrick want a dozen of your finest Macarons. Off you go! “

 

Naturally, the air is incredibly humid today. Chemistry and weather conditions never really cooperate on the  _ GBBF  _ set, and Patsy deserves a bit of torture anyhow. 

 

In the end, she is able to whip her meringue into some sort of compliance, and her macarons hold their shape and texture through baking. She can’t help but feel like she’s going through the motions, but at least they’re practiced, precise ones. 

 

The frustrations of the bakers supercede any sort of witty banter today, and despite the difficulty of conditions in the tent, Patsy is a bit grateful for any excuse to blend in with the others. 

 

Delia takes it all in stride, joking with Tim that this could be the first time in show history that 6 people get sent home at once. 

 

“Not Patsy, though, she’s impervious to wind and rain.” 

 

Patsy huffs, carefully applying her ganache and hoping the moisture doesn’t cause the macarons to collapse. 

 

“If this is impervious, I would hate to know what vulnerable feels like.” 

 

_ Ain’t that the truth.  _

 

In the end, Delia has nothing to worry about, despite her jokes. Antonia looks pleasantly surprised at the sweet kick to her peppercorn macarons, and Patrick gives her a solemn nod of approval. 

 

Jenny’s blueberry, however, end up more like squashed Violet Beauregard’s than macarons, more puddle than anything else. 

 

“This jam is overwhelming- it is as though your meringue were drowned in a sea of octopus blood.” 

 

It’s certainly a visual. 

 

Timothy also struggles, though Patrick commends him for taking a flavour risk by using rosewater, the execution is a bit on the soapy side. 

 

Shelagh opts for a simple salted caramel, and her restraint leads to a delicious, clean bake. Patsy’s pistachio look lovely- she’s quite pleased with the shade of green she managed to achieve. Antonia, however, notes that “While your structure is without fault, I cannot help but feel as though there is something missing here. I want passion and yet I sense only ambivalence.” 

 

She’s not wrong. 

 

Phyllis’s beekeeping hobby leads to delicious, albeit slightly inconsistently baked honey macarons, and Louise maintains her consistency with a classic almond variation. 

 

When they break for lunch, Patsy falters a bit, debating whether she should act as though nothing happened, or continue to stay as far away from Delia as possible to preserve what little is left of her dignity.

 

She’s spared the decision when Louise walks up, salad and bottle of water in hand. 

 

“You look a bit under the weather, and well, I have a tendency to go into ‘nurturer’ mode, so I thought this might help.” 

 

“Oh. Thank you, you’re very kind.” 

 

“It’s the least I can do. The competition does take its toll, doesn’t it?” 

 

Patsy smiles thinly in solidarity. 

 

“I suppose I’m having a bit of an off week. It was bound to happen eventually.” 

 

Louise squeezes her shoulder gently. 

 

“We’ve only just begun. There’s always time to turn things around.” 

_

 

Barbara assumes an exaggerated Aussie accent to announce their technical. 

 

“G’day mates! Today’s challenge comes to ya from down undah! Our fair judges would like for you to assemble a classic Pavlova, using only the ingredients and instructions they’ve deigned to provide.” 

 

“Try not to whinge too much, dearies,” Trixie interjects. “Tears are terrible for meringue.” 

 

Only half the bakers have even heard of a pavlova, but given the week’s theme, they all know meringue is their base. Intellectual debates over appropriate stiffness emerge, as Trixie and Barbara wink at the camera. 

 

“I like a  _ good, stiff  _ peak, Babs, what about you?” 

 

“Oh, I don’t know, Trix, you’ve got to have a little malleability to it, don’t you?” 

 

Once baked, Jenny and Shelagh make the fatal mistake of removing their pavlovas directly out of the oven, leading to an instant collapse. Patsy’s instincts are better, but the bake isn’t quite the marshmallow texture she wants. That hardly seems important, though, when Delia accidentally startles Tim as he’s cutting kiwi, and he turns around, knife in hand, to slice a gash across the top of her palm. 

 

“Tim, can you- oh fuck.” 

 

Delia looks down at the pool of blood forming across her white shirt. 

 

Without a second thought, Patsy strips off her denim button-up to hold pressure to the wound while Delia walks back to the medics. 

  
  


“Wow Pats, you really  _ do care,”  _ Delia coos, campy as all get-out. 

 

“Are you honestly joking right now? You could be seriously injured!” 

 

Patsy’s voice rises without her permission and Delia whistles. 

 

“Alright, Nurse Mount. I’ll settle down.” 

 

The medic grunts a little as he attempts to wedge in between them, but Patsy’s hands are still wrapped tightly around Delia’s, her shirt now quite thoroughly ruined. 

 

Delia can’t help but smile. 

 

“Pats? I think you can let go now.” 

 

“Right.” She takes a step back but makes no move to leave, scrutinizing the gangly boy who examines the cut. 

 

Delia rolls her eyes, exasperatedly. 

 

“Go back to your bake, Patsy. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to babysit me.” 

 

Patsy crosses her arms across her chest. 

 

“I just wanted to make sure you’re getting proper care.” 

 

“William here is doing a fine job. Finish your plating.” 

 

Patsy risks one last look back as she returns to her station to see Delia nodding at something William said, and following him out to a waiting vehicle. 

 

Delia’s unfinished Pavlova still ranks about Timothy and Jenny’s by sheer virtue of its texture, unfinished presentation or no. Shelagh and Patsy follow, and Louise and Phyllis continue their reign of excellence. 

 

The group mills nervously about as they wait on news about Delia. 

 

“Delia is all right, she’s just gone to have some stitches put in. William thought it best not to wait, and she should be back soon,” Trixie announces. 

 

Patsy is, frankly, exhausted from the day, and she would love nothing more than to collapse on her bed and pass out for about twelve hours, but Phyllis sidles up to her. 

 

“Would you care to join me for dinner and a bit of conversation? Louise has a very important call to make for her granddaughter’s birthday, and I find myself short on companionship.” 

 

(She takes great care not to mention Delia to Patsy, so as not to risk scaring her off.) 

 

“I can’t promise that I’ll be good company, but I’m flattered by the invitation.” 

 

“Oh, nonsense! You don’t give yourself enough credit, I think.” 

 

They munch on sandwiches at a small cafe, and Phyllis tells her about traversing the wilderness of New Zealand during a study abroad in uni. After giving Patsy ample opportunities to talk about herself, she finally comes out with it. 

 

“You know, Patsy, I’ve had my share of female lovers, and it’s remarkable what a good solid apology will do.” 

 

“I don’t know what you’re-” 

 

“Bollocks. You’re looking at Delia like you kicked her puppy, and your baking has suffered for it. It’s not my place to tell you what to do, but I can certainly make a recommendation.” 

 

Patsy groans. 

 

“I really am that obvious, aren’t I?”

 

Phyllis smiles, gently. 

 

“I must confess my eye is more trained for this sort of thing than most, but it is quite clear that you two matter a great deal to one another. Are you… not open about your preferences?” 

 

“It’s not that- I mean, being gay is nothing to be ashamed about, and I certainly don’t hide who I am in my day to day life, but it’s a bit different to have your infatuation broadcast on national television.” 

 

Phyllis weighs her words. 

 

“For what it’s worth, I’m quite sure the fans will have more to say about the smoldering glances between Shelagh and Patrick.” 

 

Patsy can’t help but crack a smile. 

 

“So I’m not the only one who’s noticed that, either?” 

 

“Honestly, I’m feeling a bit left out of the fun.” 

 

“As far as I know, Antonia’s single.” 

 

Phyllis’s laugh sounds like the world’s most joyous mule. 

 

As they return to the hotel, Phyllis turns to Patsy, solemn once more. 

 

“You know what, I do feel the need to tell you what to do, I’m sorry, but I do. You and Delia have something, kiddo, and you don’t just throw that sort of thing away because you can’t be bothered to get your head out of your ass. Life is full of too many intolerable cruelties to discard love when you find it.”

 

“Isn’t it a bit premature to be throwing around words like love?” 

 

“I’ve been around the block. I call them like I see them.” 

 

She turns to look at the black car currently pulling up outside the lobby. Delia tumbles out, her hand now wrapped tightly in white gauze. 

 

Phyllis claps her on the back. 

 

“And on that note, I bid you goodnight. I believe in you, Patsy. “

 

Delia looks up as she walks into the lobby, features darkening slightly when she sees Patsy stood in the vestibule. 

  
“Hello, Pats.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously, to all of you who comment and encourage, you are the best, and i am so glad to share this planet with you. 
> 
> I wanted to get at least one chapter out this week, because the weekend is the final #gotv push, and I'll have time for a short update at best. 
> 
> If you live in the states, please think about volunteering, if only to phone bank online or sending a couple bucks here and there to orgs that employ organizers. 
> 
> <3 more love, not less <3


	12. You Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 6, day 2 (and then some). 
> 
> Patsy heeds Phyllis's advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this helps the cliffhanger anxiety!

 

“Delia,” Patsy exhales. 

 

The brunette doesn’t ignore her, but she does cross her arms and keep her distance. 

 

“How’s your cut?” 

 

She shrugs. 

 

“Eight stitches. No nerve or muscle damage. I don’t mind a bit of pain.” 

 

“Look, Delia, about the other day-”

 

Delia holds up her bandaged hand to stop her. 

 

“Tony told me.” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

“That’s not an excuse, you know. It might be a reason but it’s not an excuse.” 

 

Patsy wants to get on her knees and grovel. 

 

She wants to explain just how many mistakes she has made in her life, and how sorry she is for every single one. 

 

She wants to grab Delia and kiss her until they both forget about anything that happened this week. 

 

Instead, she wrings her hands and summons the bravery to fully meet Delia’s gaze. 

 

(She’s somehow fire and ice at once, burning passion and chilling cold.) 

 

“I have a lot of baggage, Delia.” 

 

“I don’t care about baggage, Patsy. I care about  _ you.  _ I thought we were being honest with one another.” 

 

A thousand confessions flash through Patsy’s head. 

 

_ Honestly, I don’t believe I will ever be worthy of you.  _

 

_ Honestly, I’m terrified you’ll only be disappointed when you get to know me.  _

 

_ Honestly, I’m already more than a bit in love with you.  _

 

“I’m sorry, Delia.” 

 

Delia bites the corner of her mouth, shifting her weight from left to right. 

 

“Me, too.” 

 

She exhales, clearly frustrated with Patsy’s inability to form more than two-word sentences. 

 

“These pain pills have me all loopy. I’m going to bed.” 

 

“Do you want me to walk you?” 

 

(It’s a pitiful effort to reach out.) 

 

Delia shakes her head, dropping her arms in defeat. 

 

“I’m fine, Pats. Good night.” 

_ 

 

Delia appears much sunnier in the morning, vehemently assuring Tim that she wasn’t angry with him, although she suspects that he might have sabotaged her so as not to lose in their morning 5k. 

 

Patsy grabs a banana and a cup of coffee and hides back up in her room. 

 

Barbara addresses the group as they gather in the tent. 

 

“Antonia and Patrick were prepared to skip eliminations this week and cut two next week, due to the events of yesterday. However, Delia has assured us that she’s more than capable of baking today, and would like as fair a shot as the rest of you.” 

 

They all applaud Delia’s stick-to-it-iveness, and she gives a demure curtsy. 

 

“Atta girl, Delia,” Phyllis congratulates, “A flesh wound can’t keep you down.” 

 

“I will be wearing gloves, I promise!” 

 

Trixie quells the group’s chatter. 

 

“For today’s masterpiece, the Judges want a dozen miniature meringue pies, identical, and beautifully displayed. You have three hours!”

 

Delia moves a bit more gingerly than usual, but she’s far from incapable. And just as confident as ever. Patsy thinks she could probably make it to the finals with one hand behind her back, but she tries her hardest to focus on her own bakes. 

 

Phyllis cleverly subverts the expectation of the judges by making a pumpkin chiffon pie, folding the meringue into her filling, instead of using it on top. Antonia describes the first bite as “holding the clouds of a sunset upon one’s tongue, savouring the last light of the day.” 

 

Jenny opts for a traditional lemon meringue, and her pies look remarkably better than anything she did yesterday, even if they do taste rather ordinary. 

 

Delia’s toffee meringue combination is, like her, unexpected and utterly delightful. Patrick simply repeats the word “brilliant!” over and over. 

 

Patsy likes the colour on her blood-orange meringues, and Antonia seems more well pleased than yesterday. 

 

“There is a darkness to these- a  _ pain _ , even, that compels me. You have challenged my palate, and I am better for it.” 

 

Timothy’s key lime pies are perfectly flavoured, but a bit lop-sided, though Patrick does compliment him on the model dinghy he fashioned for presentation. 

 

Shelagh’s grapefruit ends up more tart than she anticipated, and Antonia winces, abandoning the effort after the second mouthful. “I feel as though I am being punished for something I did not do. Perhaps I have earned negative karma in this lifetime.” 

 

Louise continues her streak of effortless sophistication, surprising Patrick with an elegantly rendered kumquat display. 

 

“I’ve never even heard of putting kumquat in a pie, but you’ve managed to balance the tartness and sweetness beautifully. Bravo!” 

When they break for lunch and deliberation, Louise and Phyllis rush over to Delia to make sure she hasn’t pushed herself too hard. Jenny and Shelagh deliberate which of them stands the best chance of going home, but agree that they feel like they’ve represented themselves as well as could be hoped. 

 

Patsy walks over to where Trixie steals a quick smoke break. 

 

“Do I owe you a light today?” 

 

“No, actually, I’m trying to quit…” 

 

Patsy chances a glance back towards Delia. 

 

Trixie arches an eyebrow. 

 

“So I see. How can I help you then, sweetie?” 

 

“Actually, I was wondering if I could ask a favor.” 

_ 

 

Patsy is a bit scatterbrained during the announcement- it’s evident that both she and Delia will make it through to next week, and the victory of Phyllis and defeat of Jenny surprises no one. She worries more about whether Trixie will fulfill her promise. 

 

Her worries ease when the blonde discreetly hands her a slip of paper. 

 

“Now I expect that you won’t be using my intel for nefarious purposes, Patsy.” 

 

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” 

 

Trixie smiles, encouragingly. 

 

“I do hope it works out for you, whatever it is you’re planning to do.” 

_ 

 

Normally, Patsy would spend the entirety of her Sunday evening preparing for the workweek. Prepping meals, doing the shopping, washing a few loads of laundry. 

 

Tonight, however, she hunkers down in her kitchen. In two hours, she has two dozen perfect donkey-shaped biscuits. 

 

Patsy’s mother was very particular about many things: setting the table properly ( _ ‘forks go from outside to in, Patience’ _ ), crossing one’s legs at the ankles ( _ ‘no one should see your thighs unless they’re a physician or a spouse’) _ , and handwriting important messages ( _ ‘calligraphy says ‘You matter.’ an email says ‘I do.’) _

 

She’s grateful for the emphasis on penmanship as she fashions a bold-faced card to accompany her bake. 

 

**_SORRY FOR BEING SUCH AN ASS._ **

 

**_I’M BRAYING YOU’LL FORGIVE ME._ **

 

Before painstakingly wrapping the parcel, Patsy also pens a letter. 

 

_ Delia,  _

 

_ I can’t say it enough, but I am so sorry for the way I spoke to you last week. More than anything, I regret how hurtful and disrespectful my words were to you. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and it was truly horrible of me to lash out, regardless of my state.  _

 

_ You’ve absolutely no obligation to hear me out, or to even have anything more to do with me, but I hope that you’ll allow me to at least be honest with you- it’s the very least you deserve.  _

 

_ I’m not good at letting other people get close. When my mother died, my father handled his grief by ignoring it- sending me off to school, keeping our relationship limited to superficialities and financial transactions. As a girl, I thought that if I let myself cry, I would truly never stop. (Alice in Wonderland is not a good accompaniment to bereavement, for what it’s worth). You might have noticed that I’m a bit out of touch with my emotions.  _

 

_ You make me feel SO MUCH, Delia.  _

 

_ It’s exhilarating, and wonderful, but also utterly terrifying. When you were brave and vulnerable with me I got scared and shut down, instead of facing that fear.  _

 

_ I should have said “I would love nothing more than to be your girlfriend.”  _

_ Or even, “Honestly, I’m a bit of a wreck right now, but I think, given enough time, I could be ready for something more.”  _

 

_ Anything but what I did say.  _

 

_ I can’t help but feel like from the moment we met, you saw something in me that no one ever has before. Perhaps that’s why I couldn’t keep the utter adoration off of my face in front of god and the BBC. What can I say? You amaze me.  _

 

_ My mother would have loved you.  _

 

_ Love,  _

 

_ Patsy _

 

_

 

She gets a scant three hours of sleep, but the package is on its way to Wales first thing Monday morning. Patsy tries to distract herself with work and practice and laser-pointer games with Mary Cynthia (she even acts as wingman for Tony on Tuesday, in a bit of an IOU), but she’s on pins and needles until she gets a message from Delia on Wednesday evening. 

 

It’s a selfie of Delia frowning through a smile as she bites off the head of one of the biscuits. 

 

**_these are the best shortbread i’ve ever eaten. you drive me mad._ **

 

**_and i’m afraid i can’t quite give up on you, seeing as you’ve realized that awful puns are the quickest way to my heart :/_ **

 

Patsy doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. She lets out a sort of strangled  _ eeeep!  _ that startles MC from where she rolls around in her catnip. 

 

_ Does it help or hurt my case if I tell you that you look positively adorable?  _

 

**_i would prefer ‘devastatingly sexy’ or ‘unbearably attractive’, but i can settle for adorable._ **

 

**_thank you for the letter, pats._ **

 

**_if your mother had anything to do with the making of you, i’m certain she was a remarkable woman._ **

 

(Okay, definitely crying now.) 

 

_ I would reciprocate your selfie, except I’m afraid you’ve rendered me a bit of a splotchy, teary mess.  _

 

**_still beautiful, i’m certain._ **

 

There’s a few minutes’ pause as Patsy watches the taunting ellipsis that indicates that Delia is composing (and then deleting. And then composing again) another message. 

 

**_i don’t want you to be under the impression that you’re off the hook. or that i’m not still hurt/angry/annoyed by your behavior._ **

 

_ But?  _

 

**_but i’m going to be in london on friday for my cousin’s wedding… could i see you?_ **

 

(Patsy quickly verbalizes the pros and cons of a meeting outside the tent with Mary Cynthia, who plants herself on Patsy’s chest and rubs her face against her cheek. At least someone loves her no matter how much she fucks up.) 

  
_ I would really like that.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO CLOSE TO KNOWING THE END OF THE CLIFFHANGER OF AMERICAN DEMOCRACY 
> 
> you're all dears, and you've done wonders in helping my mental health these past few weeks. 
> 
> (if anyone wants to start a matriarchal lesbian separatist colony, hmu)


	13. Please Be Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia's visit to London...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck this week, fuck the electoral college, fuck the fact that Hillary Clinton will very likely win the popular vote by a margin of 2 million people and not be our next president. 
> 
> So,   
> i wrote some fluffy smut, because i couldn't think of a better way to piss off Mike Pence. 
> 
> (hope it doesn't jump the shark too much on the plot, but you know, fuck everything right now.)

It’s an afternoon wedding, and Patsy’s shift ends at 3, so she and Delia agree to meet up at a cafe in her neighbourhood around 5. 

 

Patsy’s a bit early, though she took the time to shower and change out of her scrubs. She doesn’t often spend much time second-guessing her kit, but today choosing a shirt feels like a life or death decision. 

 

(She eventually opts for a crisp white shirt and black skinny jeans. In retrospect, it’s very waiter-like, but hindsight is 20/20.) 

 

Patsy decides to go ahead and order for the both of them- this isn’t a blind date, afterall, and if Delia’s stories about her family are any indication, she’ll appreciate any respite she can find after the long day.

 

As she picks up their cups and pastries, she hears, rather than sees Delia. 

 

“If you were a chap I’d be exceptionally offended right now.” 

 

“Good thing I’m not, then, hmmm?” 

 

Patsy nearly spills Delia’s tea all over her shirt when she turns around. 

 

“Oh. Wow.” 

 

Delia’s eyes dance with merriment, and frankly, Patsy is far too awed by her to even feign embarrassment at her fawning. 

 

“Is it really that shocking to see me in a dress?” 

 

Patsy has seen beautiful women in gorgeous clothing before. Lots of them, in fact. 

 

But Delia’s navy sheath hugs her body like a second skin, falling far enough down her thigh to be tasteful, whilst still revealing a tantalizing amount of leg. 

 

Patsy wants to  _ be  _ that dress. 

 

(Delia, being Delia, has rounded out the ensemble with a leather jacket and stilettos . It shouldn’t work. She looks resplendent.) 

 

Right. Words. 

 

“You do seem like a bit more of a jeans and trainers kind of gal.” 

 

“You’re not wrong. But mam would have killed me if I showed up looking like common riff raff.” 

 

Patsy still can’t bring her eyes to quite meet Delia’s face. 

 

(There’s a lot of leg to take in. She didn’t even know she was a leg woman. She wants to bite Delia’s thighs.) 

 

“Remind me to write your mother a thank you note.” 

 

Delia’s laughter fills the small shop as they move out to a table on the patio. 

 

“So, how was the wedding?” 

 

She gestures dismissively. 

 

“Perfectly lovely. All my aunts and uncles keep pestering me about whether or not I’ll be next. It’s exhausting. And entirely unfair to the happy couple.” 

 

Patsy nods in understanding. 

 

“I think my father has frankly given up on the idea of me finding a suitable spouse. Though he has given me plenty a lecture on the virtues of a prenup.” 

 

“My father has promised that just because I’ll probably marry a woman doesn’t mean that he won’t threaten her to the full extent he would any man that would take my hand.” 

 

She puts on a gruff, exaggerated version of her own accent. 

 

“You hurt Delia, you answer to me. And I’m not easy to answer to.” 

 

“Duly noted.” 

 

Delia arches a brow. 

 

“I mean, not that I want to marry you. Who wouldn’t, honestly? But that’s a little besides the point now. I don’t even know if this is a date, for chrissakes!” 

 

Patsy feels a warm hand cover her own jittery fingers, slowing her quick descent into sheer madness. 

 

“Oh, bollocks.I’m already fucking this up horribly, aren’t I?”

 

“It’s not your finest hour, no. But lucky for you, I find rambling women to be rather endearing.” 

 

“I’ll have you know that I strike terror into the hearts of strangers every day, Delia. I am formidable, and stern, and  _ no-nonsense _ . Except for you, it would appear.” 

 

Delia takes a deep breath through her nostrils, assessing the situation and sipping on her drink. 

 

“Which is why you went off on me last week.”  

 

Her smile is gone, her gaze penetrating, daring Patsy to even think about lying to her. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

Delia waits, expectantly. 

 

“It’s much easier to write it than to say it out loud…”

 

Patsy wills herself to meet Delia’s eyes.

 

“In all honesty, I’ve never felt so strongly for anyone in my life. And I’m afraid that… I’m afraid that if I let myself feel everything fully, it will hurt too much.” 

 

Delia bites her lip in concern. 

 

“So, you’d rather go ahead and end things before they have a chance to be painful?” 

 

Patsy laughs ruefully. 

 

“It’s not that I’d  _ rather _ , it’s just that I don’t know anything else.” 

 

Delia squeezes her hand. 

 

“Do you trust me?” 

 

Patsy doesn’t hesitate this time. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Then trust me, when I say that I want this,” she gestures between them,  “whatever it is, to be a thing. Sometimes you meet people, and you know that they’re meant to be in your life. So, maybe we don’t get married, but yes, we stay connected, we keep the thread, we talk and write and don’t just run when it gets scary.” 

 

Patsy exhales a shaky breath. 

 

“Would it be terribly gauche of me to ask if, with a newfound understanding, we might start over? I fear that I’ve ruined the mood, truly.” 

 

Delia beams, and it is the most beautiful thing in the world. 

 

(Patsy almost falls over with the force of the thought.)

 

“Certainly. And, for the record, I would very much like for this to be a date, if you would.” 

 

“I have to warn you, Delia, I’m absolute rubbish at dates. There’s a reason I’m chronically single, and it’s only mostly that I have deep-seated issues related to intimacy.” 

 

“Well, I have enough charm for the both of us, lucky you.” 

 

“Now you’re just being cocky.” 

_ 

 

They eventually transition to Patsy giving Delia a walking tour of her neighbourhood. Feeling brave (and buoyed by Delia’s innate ability to put her at ease), Patsy slips her arm through the crook of Delia’s elbow, pointing out the alley where she found Mary Cynthia, the pothole that gave her a terrible flat tyre, the pub where she met Tony. 

 

Patsy scuffs her toes a bit as they reach her building. 

 

“This is me.” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

There’s a charge to the air between them, a resistance, unspoken, against parting just yet. 

 

“Are you hungry? I could whip up something? I mean, if you haven’t dinner plans, or somewhere else to be just yet.” 

 

“No plans. I told my mam I was crashing with a friend before catching the bus tomorrow, so she’s not worrying her head off about me. Was my stomach growling that loudly?” 

 

In lieu of response, Patsy simply drags her by the hand up to her flat. 

 

_

Delia hangs back, setting down her satchel as Patsy marches into the kitchen, quickly rummaging in the fridge for suitable ingredients. 

 

“You don’t have any allergies do you?” 

 

“Nope. You have a lovely library.” 

 

“Honestly, Deels, you could have waited a full minute before snooping.” 

 

“Anything in the living room is fair game. And I commend you for owning actual vinyl records. You’re obviously a good thrifter.” 

 

“I admire history. And vocal jazz.” 

 

“I fully expect to hear the story behind this photograph. Bachelorette party? Lost bet? It’s a good look on you.” 

 

Patsy carries in two plates to the coffee table and snatches the aforementioned polaroid away from Delia. 

 

“I will exact my revenge when you least expect it Delia. I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.” 

 

Delia just winks. 

 

“I’m a bit of a glutton for punishment.” 

 

She  _ moans  _ when she bites into her sandwich.  _ Honestly.  _

 

“This is the best grilled cheese anyone has ever made in the history of the universe.” 

 

“You really think so?” 

 

“I know so.” 

 

“The secret is mayonnaise on the outside. Sounds disgusting, tastes delicious.” 

 

“And the bread is phenomenal. Is that sourdough?” 

 

“I may have been doing some purely cathartic baking.” 

 

Delia savours the last crispy bite before licking her fingers clean. 

 

(It’s remarkable how many traits that Patsy detests in others become endearing when they belong to Delia.) 

 

“If I wasn’t already seriously into you, that grilled cheese would have absolutely won me over.” 

 

Patsy effects an exaggerated American Southern accent. 

 

“They do say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” 

 

Delia springs up to wash the dishes, insistent on at least contributing some labour to the effort. Patsy decides to embrace Delia’s scrutiny, and puts on a record to add a bit of ambience. She sits and sways for a moment, eyes closed, as Delia finishes toweling off their plates. 

 

“How very cliche of you, Patsy.” 

 

“Delia, there’s something I need to tell you… I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic.” 

 

“Your secret’s safe with me.” She extends a hand out to Patsy, lifting her back up onto her feet. 

 

“If we’re following convention- dance with me?” 

 

“I’m not sure anything about you could be described as conventional,” Patsy murmurs, but she allows herself to be pulled into a loose embrace. They sway, gently, to the brushed snare drum and studio strings. 

 

“This is so nice I almost don’t even want to get on the bus tomorrow,” Delia whispers, her voice vibrating against Patsy’s shoulder more than sounding in her ears. 

 

“I forgot about that entirely.” 

 

Patsy stops their steps, giving herself a bit of space as the music plays on. 

 

“There are no cameras here, Delia, no competitors to walk in on us.” 

 

(To her credit, Sister Mary Cynthia does take the opportunity to rub against Delia’s ankle.) 

 

She swallows, afraid that her heart will jump right out of her throat if she doesn’t.

 

“Do you still want to kiss me?” 

 

“I never stopped.” 

 

Delia moves slowly, searching Patsy’s eyes for any trace of doubt. Patsy closes the gap between them, capturing Delia’s lips in the lightest of kisses, scared that any amount of force would cause them to shatter. 

 

Perhaps she’s a romantic because she’s never had a “movie kiss,” or a perfect date, or truly felt as if everything were  _ right  _ when she kissed someone. 

 

But Delia smiles and parts her lips, and for the first time in her life, Patsy  _ completely _ loses herself to the moment. 

 

So much so, that before she knows it, they’ve landed on the couch, and Delia’s skirt is drifting precariously higher, Patsy’s hands fighting for purchase on skin and reality. 

 

“Delia?” 

 

“Mmmmmph. Don’t stop. Unless you need to. Is everything all right, Pats?” 

 

Patsy can’t help but smile at Delia’s altruistic concern. And her disheveled appearance.  

 

“I’m fine. Splendid, in fact… I just recalled that you mentioning that you had plans to stay with someone, and I would hate to get so… caught up that you caused someone worry.” 

 

Delia shakes herself out of a brain fog and quickly jumps up to grab her phone. 

 

“Actually, I was planning on crashing with Peter.” 

 

She looks up as she scrolls through her contacts. 

 

“Do you want me to go ahead and leave now?” 

 

“I want you to stay.” 

 

Delia blushes. 

 

“You do? I sort of thought you were making an excuse to be rid of me for the evening.” 

 

Seeing Delia flustered like this does something to Patsy. She feels her heart beating through every inch of her skin as she sets Delia’s phone on the table. 

 

“I just didn’t want you to have any distractions.” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

“I’m a bit selfish that way, Deels. I want you  _ all  _ to myself.” 

 

“ _ Oh.”  _

 

She never thought she’d see the day. Delia Busby, rendered  _ absolutely speechless.  _

 

“As much as I like a good old-fashioned sofa snog, I would love to take you to bed.”

 

Delia practically leaps on the mattress. 

 

“I knew you’d have white sheets.” 

 

“Did you now?” 

 

(Patsy is doing her best to level the sartorial playing field, carefully folding her shirt on the back of a chair. Delia is doing her best to distract her with feather light touches upon the newly exposed skin.)

 

“Yes, I’ve spent a lot of time imagining your bed. And your living room. And your kitchen.” 

 

“I do hope you’ll tell me about these daydreams, Delia. And perhaps what you were up to whilst you were imagining.” 

 

In one fell swoop, Delia lifts her dress over her head and throws it haphazardly onto the floor. 

 

(Patsy can establish ground rules around clutter later. They have more pressing priorities at the moment.) 

 

“I prefer to show, not tell, Pats. Very important thing to know about me.” 

 

Patsy can’t help but stare at Delia. (It’s becoming a bit of a pattern.) She wouldn’t have expected delicate lace, but Patsy is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

 

“I also rarely wear lingerie. Another important thing to know about me.”

 

“I thought it seemed a bit out of character, not that I’m complaining.” She grins wickedly. “Would it make you more comfortable if we just took them off?” 

 

Delia giggles, shaking her head against the pillow. 

 

“Patience Mount, you  _ dark horse. _ ” 

_ 

 

The sheets are a tangled mess as they collapse against one another, Delia’s sweaty fringe plastered to Patsy’s pale chest. 

 

“Remind me again why we waited so long to do this?” 

 

“I believe there were concerns about impartiality amongst contestants, and not appearing too lovesick on camera.” 

 

“Right. That’s stupid.” 

 

“In retrospect, I have to agree that I couldn’t give a fuck about twitter trolls at this precise moment.” 

 

Delia yawns, sitting up and stretching to reveal the most perfect body Patsy has ever known. 

 

(She feels much more qualified to judge it so after the events of the past twenty minutes. Primary sources are the most reliable, after all.) 

 

“Do you know my favorite part about being a woman that sleeps with women?” 

 

“What is that, Delia?” 

 

The brunette lowers herself back on top of Patsy, nipping at an earlobe as she whispers in her ear. 

 

“We don’t have to stop.” 

 

Patsy should have known from Delia’s bakes that she was an overachiever. 

 

But learning this way is  _ so much better.  _

 

“You know, Delia, if the fact that we’re both exhausted tomorrow doesn’t give us away, I’m sure my inability to walk might.” 

 

“Worth it.” 

  
  


So. Very. Worth. It. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fwiw, the record Patsy puts on is Vaughan and Violins- she's all about that sexy shit. 
> 
> I hope you're all taking care of yourselves and finding joy and love outside of political discourse. For me, this vapid fluff is self care, and I hope it helps you as well. Big ups to everyone that's checked in and offered condolences. This was the first campaign I've invested time and money in, and although the results were disheartening, the work i put into it was not. never stop fighting.


	14. Black Coffee in Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the tent.  
> (Week 7, day 1.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit of a jolt to get back to the bakes after last week's diversion... hopefully i haven't gone too far off the rails!

 

This time, Patsy is the one to wake first. Delia lets out a sleepy little whimper as the cool air rushes to fill the space beside her, but otherwise remains unstirred. Patsy pulls on an oversized t shirt and moves to the kitchen, checking her watch. There’s not really time for another roll in the hay, but she can certainly swing breakfast in bed.

 

“It’s not pancakes, but I hope you like french toast.”

 

Delia smiles lazily as she opens her eyes to greet the source of the heavenly aroma.

 

“I would have helped, you know, there’s no need to wait on me.”

 

Patsy hands her a cup of coffee.

 

“Yes, but then I wouldn’t have an excuse to keep you naked.”

 

Delia hugs the bedsheet closer in a faux-gesture of modesty.

 

“You rogue!”

 

She grimaces as the coffee hits her tongue.

 

“Please tell me you have milk and sugar in your flat.”

 

“You’re not sweet enough already, Deels?”

 

“Honestly, I don’t know how on earth you drink it black.”

 

Patsy rolls her eyes as she returns to the kitchen (Delia taking full advantage of the opportunity to ogle her backside).

 

They finish their breakfast in companionable silence, trying to adjust to a dearth of sleep and excess of oxytocin. As Patsy rummages about to assemble her kit, a look of mortification crosses Delia’s face.

 

“Patsy?”

 

“What now, Delia?”

 

“You might want to wear a scarf today… just a suggestion.”

 

_

 

It doesn’t go unnoticed that Patsy and Delia arrive for the bus together, looking considerably worse for the wear. But Delia, charming as ever, regales them with tales of her cousin’s wedding, and manages to at least distract from Phyllis’s furrowed brow of mild disapproval.

 

She snoozes on the ride to set, leaning heavily on Patsy’s shoulder as the redhead attempts to mentally prepare for the day ahead. The incessant pounding of rain on the windows doesn’t really bolster her optimism.

 

“Splendid Six! We are so glad to have you back, even if mother nature does not agree.”

 

Barbara looks quite like a rubber ducky in her bright yellow Mackintosh and Wellies. Trixie, unwilling to forgo fashion for comfort, sulks a bit in her sleek black number.

 

“In line with unfortunate accommodations, this weekend’s challenges all include dietary restrictions of one sort or another.”

 

“Our first challenge hearkens back to Antonia’s childhood, and the days of rationing. We want your most decadent depression cake- effectively vegan, as well, which means no butter, milk, or eggs.”

 

“And in the interest of authenticity, no electric mixers!”

 

The now sodden group grumbles a bit, but manage to muster enough energy to hop to it.

 

“It’s important to use an acid-base reaction to get that sort of fluffiness the eggs would normally provide,” Phyllis explains. “I’ve used a homemade apple cider vinegar for my spice cake.”

 

Timothy opts for a classic chocolate, as does Shelagh, but his chemistry knowledge makes for for a much more successful result, hers appearing dense as a brick once out of the oven.

 

“We certainly won’t have to worry about a dry bake, will we,” Louise muses, hugging her sweater closer to fight the unexpected chill from the damp. She’s gone for a lemon-flavouring, using lemon juice to offset her own baking soda.

 

Delia’s brow furrows as she stirs her caramel base, blocking all outside distractions as she multitasks, roasting pecans to a perfect golden brown. Patsy doesn’t think she’s made eye contact once all day.

 

There’s not too much time to fret, however, as she gingerly places cut strawberries around her vanilla-bean creation. Just because their recipes are ration-inspired doesn’t mean presentation is unimportant.

 

Shelagh is clearly at the bottom of the pack, though Tim gets a few points knocked off as well for a rather bland presentation. (“If I wanted to eat mud, I would simply go outside,” Antonia admonishes.)

 

The other four are too close to call at this point, though Patsy does earn a bit extra praise for her artistic efforts (“Where substance is lean, we may sustain ourselves on aesthetics,” Antonia muses, recalling harder times.)  

 

When they break for lunch, Delia walks back to the medic, swallowing some sort of pill before returning to craft service. She’s more reserved than usual as they munch on their sandwiches, huddled in the tent to avoid the continuing downpour.

 

Phyllis sidles up to her, concern wrinkling her brow.

 

“Are you all right, dear?”

 

“Just a bit under the weather, as it were.”

 

Delia smiles thinly, but looks a bit pale and shaken nonetheless.

 

Patsy attempts to catch her eye in sympathy (apology?) but Delia begs her off with a subtle wave of her hand.

 

Damn the rain, she needs a cigarette.

 

Trixie has commandeered the shadiest tree, carefully holding her lighter against the elements.

 

“Did it not work out? The address and all that?”

 

In her rush to light her own match, Patsy takes a moment to register the question.

 

“I’m sorry? Oh. Delia.”

 

Trixie nods, encouragingly.

 

“The thing is, it did work out. Splendidly. Or so I thought, until about two hours ago.”

 

“You two sorted things out?”

 

Patsy blushes, recalling communications verbal and exceptionally non-verbal.

 

(There were more than a few points last night where she found herself entirely incapable of forming coherent words.)  

 

“We did as much to sort them out as two people possibly can… but she’s avoiding me like the plague today. I usually know when I’ve stuffed something up, but honestly, I can’t think of anything I’ve done this time.”

 

Trixie squeezes her arm, gently.

 

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with you, sweetie. She might honestly just be feeling ill. These things do happen.”

 

“That is not at all encouraging.”

 

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll buy you all the whisky you can manage if she’s still avoiding you come nightfall.”

 

Patsy rolls her eyes.

 

“You’re an absolute gem, Trix. Have you ever thought about abandoning being a presenter to go into psychotherapy?”

 

“As a patient? Every day.”

_

 

Barbara has managed to paste a pencil-thin mustache onto her face despite the adverse conditions, and she adopts an exaggerated accent to introduce the next segment.

 

“Our technical challenge comes to us from _Italia._ Rumoured to have been the product of accident, the _torta caprese_ is one of the most famous gluten-free desserts in the world.”

 

“You have two hours to make a perfect one, fit for the most discerning sufferers of Celiac’s Disease.”

 

“On your marks, get set, _infornare!”_

 

There are myriad opportunities to wreck a torta caprese. Not softening the butter to room temperature. Improperly whipping the egg whites. Mucking up the melting chocolate. And then, there’s the bake itself. Patsy does her best to maintain a cool head, swapping travel stories with Phyllis as they prep their batter.

 

“I didn’t have any love affairs, but I did spend a lovely spring holiday on Capri during Uni. I came back red as a lobster, but the food was splendid.”

 

“You know, Patsy, I’ve actually not been to Capri. But Tuscany, that was another story…”

 

Delia looks flustered, and exhausted, and Patsy wants nothing more than to swoop in and help her finish the daunting task, but she’s made it quite clear that she wants no help whatsoever.

 

She stands, frozen before her eggs, debating how or if to separate them.

 

“Think Busby, think…” she murmurs, weighing her options, before joining her yolks to the sugar and whipping up the whites.

 

Patsy heaves a sigh of relief, and more than a little pride. She can’t help feel as if Delia is “her girl,” as possessive (and frankly, patriarchal) as that sounds.

  


This go round, Timothy has set his oven far too hot, and ended up with a crunchy middle instead of a pillowy soft texture.

 

“I think this is more tortoiseshell than torta,” Patrick quips.

 

“I think that you should leave the jokes to us,” Barbara rejoins.

 

Shelagh’s effort is much better this go round, though she has omitted the appropriate dusting of sugar atop the cake.

 

“I fear your tort comes to us naked, bare of its ornamentation,” Antonia laments, covering her eyes at the aforementioned cake, but nonetheless eating it with gusto.

 

Phyllis’s lack of intimate experience with Capri puts her next, her almonds ground just a hair too large for a truly excellent bake.

 

Delia is next, her instinct having guided her in the right direction.

 

“This cake overcomes technical flaws with a beautiful intuition of flavour,” Patrick apprises.

 

Louise is next, and Patsy’s eidetic memory for restaurant desserts earns her the victory in today’s technical.

 

“I feel as if I am transported to a decadent holiday, wined and dined by a handsome stranger who has secrets to share and lessons to teach,” Antonia whispers, reminiscing to her own scandalous, past, apparently.

 

“What she means to say, is excellent authenticity, and perfect craftsmanship,” Patrick supplements.

_

 

Delia once more shrugs off the others, retreating back to her room before anyone can so much as process with her. Patsy falters a bit, deciding whether to check up on her, before taking Delia’s earlier words to heart, and knocking softly on her door.

 

There’s no response, but when Patsy puts her ear against the door, she can hear soft snoring.

 

It’s certainly preferable to tears or cursing.

 

Trixie walks up behind Patsy in the corridor, a look of question on her face.

 

“She’s sleeping,” Patsy explains. “At least I think it means she doesn’t hate me.”

 

“Poor thing. She did seem a bit unlike herself today.”

 

“We really didn’t get much sleep at all last night.”

 

Patsy’s eyes widen, realizing that she’s revealed too much, but Trixie just grins.

 

“You absolute devil, Patience Mount! Good for you.”

 

“Apparently not so good for Delia…”

 

Trixie claps her on the back.

 

“I beg to differ, Patsy. You clearly knocked her out. Now, I won’t get you pissed, but Barbara and I have managed to convince Antonia to go drinking with us for a little storytime. It would be a shame if you missed it…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're all absolute peaches and i adore you. 
> 
> i hope something made you smile this week, and that you have animals and people in your lives who lift you up and make you stronger. 
> 
> (also, if there is not substantive pupcake in the christmas special, i vow that i will fic it. hold me to it!)


	15. Daydream Believer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DELIA IS FINE, Y'ALL. 
> 
> or: 
> 
> dialogue, 
> 
> with a bit of baking to s p i c e things up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a dirty hippy mostly-vegan, so i can make jokes about it, k? 
> 
> hopefully this assuages anxieties re: delia's fate.

Delia doesn’t come to breakfast in the morning. No one has seen or heard from her since yesterday evening. Patsy doesn’t want to outwardly panic (not only would it be supremely unhelpful, it would probably make the whole being in love with her thing rather obvious), but her nerves are in such a state that she can scarcely manage to eat the smallest bit of toast. 

 

“I hope Delia’s feeling better- she looked exhausted yesterday,” Tim muses innocently. 

 

Patsy gives in to the guilt. 

 

“You know what, I think I’m going to check on her.” 

 

Her pace quickens the closer she gets to Delia’s room. This time, she knocks on the door loudly, bruising her knuckles in the process. 

 

“Delia? Are you awake?” 

 

Delia is quick to answer, though she still sports pyjamas and mussed hair. 

 

“Good morning, Pats.” 

 

She can’t help but sigh in relief that Delia is both alive and not too cross with her to at least open her door. 

 

“It’s not like you to miss breakfast- I just wanted to make sure that you were feeling all right after yesterday. Have you been ill?” 

 

Delia shakes her head, pausing for a moment as she deliberates how best to describe the events of the previous day. She invites Patsy to sit next to her on the bed. 

 

Patsy interprets her thoughtful silence as a need for her to apologize. 

 

“I’m so sorry if I upset you, Delia. I just- even if things don’t work out between us- I care about you, you know?” 

 

Delia grasps her hand firmly, stopping her rant with a fierce glare. 

 

“You didn’t upset me in the slightest, Pats. You are absolutely wonderful. And if I was avoiding you at first, it’s only because looking at you makes me think of just how wonderful you are. How wonderful Friday night was. It’s a bit distracting when one’s trying to win a prestigious baking competition.” 

 

She pauses to gather her bearings. 

 

“I was in an accident. About a year ago. Traumatic brain injury.” 

 

“I had no idea! I’m so terribly sorry-” 

 

Delia waves her off, dismissively. 

 

“I’m better now. For the most part. Recovered memory, no seizures, able to work without accommodations. But sometimes, when I’ve had a hard day, or I push myself too far, I get headaches. It’s nothing a good rest and a tall drink of water can’t fix.” 

 

“So it is my fault, then.” 

 

Delia frowns. 

 

“I had just as much agency as you did. I’m a grown woman, Patsy. I knew the consequences of my actions perfectly well.” 

 

Patsy finds her voice raising without her permission. 

 

“But I didn’t! I wouldn’t have dreamed of jeopardising your health like that!” 

 

“Which is why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you treating me like some invalid, handling me with kid gloves. My mother already acts like I’m a child.” 

 

Delia’s cold anger gives Patsy pause. 

 

“Of course, Delia. You’re absolutely right. It’s not my place to place limits on you. I just want you to be well… I can’t help but wonder, if I didn’t contribute more than just the lack of sleep?” 

 

(Delia has no patience for insinuations.)

 

“You mean the sex? Truth be told, you’re the first person I’ve been with since the accident, so I can’t, scientifically, rule that out, without further evidence. However,” she smirks, “there has been no correlation of adverse symptoms when I’ve taken care of things on my own.” 

 

“You mean  _ masturbation?  _ Honestly, Delia, we’re medical professionals, no need to beat around the bush,” Patsy teases. 

 

“Well goodness, if you’re beating, I think I’m a bit concerned with how you spend your alone time, Pats!” 

 

Patsy runs a thumb over Delia’s wrist, studying their contrasting hands. Hers, pale and manicured, against Delia’s dark tan and short, bare nails. 

 

“Are you feeling better today, though?” 

 

Delia nods. 

 

“Immensely. Especially now that I have the world’s finest nurse looking after me.” 

 

Her hands move to either side of Patsy’s face, and she kisses her soundly before pushing her towards the door. 

 

“I’m afraid we don’t have time to play doctor today, though. Apparently I’m due to compete in some sort of cookery contest?” 

_ 

 

Barbara dons an oversized Polar Bear costume this morning as Trixie attempts, in vain, to prevent white fur from shedding onto her dress. 

 

“As you all know, bakers, Patrick is quite the scientist in the kitchen. For today’s masterpiece, he wants to see your finest Baked Alaska, but with a twist!” 

 

“Not only should your sponge be gluten free, but your ice cream and meringue should also be vegan. This is the most restrictive challenge in  _ Fete  _ history!” 

 

“Can you tell we’ve been getting loads of angry fan mail from the animal rights contingent?” 

 

While the group race to get their ice cream bases mixed and chilled in time to set properly, a discussion springs up on the pros and cons of dietary choices.

 

“I’d never even met a vegan until last year,” Shelagh observes. “I’m afraid I’m a bit behind the times on this one.” 

 

“I just can’t quit cheese,” Phyllis bemoans, “ but I do admire the ethical tenacity of an entirely plant-based diet.” 

 

“I dated a vegan once.” 

 

Delia’s ears visibly prick up at Patsy’s admission. 

 

“How’d that go, Pats?” 

 

“I asked to have filet mignon for my birthday and got called a heartless, soulless murderer. All in all, one of my better breakups, honestly.” 

 

Delia raises an eyebrow at Patsy’s deft avoidance of pronouns. They’ll talk about  _ that  _ later. 

 

“I went vegan for lent once. It was alright, but I did get a bit sick of tofu by the end of it.” 

 

Tim looks absolutely delighted at the chemical possibilities of the day. 

 

“I’ve been reading up on aquafaba- it’s funny because it’s such a new thing, but it seems so obvious! I mean, who knew that the water from canned beans- that we drain and toss away, could make a perfect meringue! It’s just brilliant chemistry, all around.” 

 

(He whistles the whole day.) 

 

Not everyone else shares the same optimism. Shelagh uses granulated sugar instead of a simple syrup in her ice cream, leading to a grainy consistency more reminiscent of wet sand than velvety bliss. 

 

(Or as Antonia put it, “Had I wanted to taste grit on my tongue, I would have become an ostrich. As you can see, I am fully human, and shall not attempt to swallow any more.”) 

 

Delia’s coconut milk base leads to a delicious simple vanilla, paired with a rice flour passionfruit sponge and a perfectly bruleed meringue. 

 

“It’s untraditional, but that’s what we’ve come to expect from you,” Patrick observes. 

 

Louise falls short today, her chocolate cake gummy from a heavy had with potato flour, and her cashew-peanut butter ice cream a bit too melted for the judges’ tastes. 

 

Phyllis continues her consistency with a nutty quinoa-flour sponge topped with vegan butter pecan (she made vegan “butter” at home. Honestly, the woman really knows no bounds when it comes to prep work). She even infuses maple syrup into her meringue.

 

Antonia sticks her head in her bowl to lick clean every inch of porcelain. 

 

Patsy’s plating isn’t as neat as she would prefer, but her cinnamon cake turned out well (though, god willing, she will never have to use tapioca flour again). She’s right proud of her cappuccino soy ice cream (she likes to think it could even get Delia to come around on tofu- at least the silken variety). And Patrick is absolutely delighted by the novelty of placing the whole Baked Alaska in a giant demi-tasse. 

 

“It’s like the world’s biggest latte!” 

 

Timothy is the clear technical over-achiever today, and he opts for a visual pun as well. In the shape of a giant chickpea are his garbanzo flour carrot cake sponge, cashew “cream cheese” ice cream, and perfectly toasted aquafaba meringue. 

 

“I am glad to find that this tastes of sweetness and not legumes. Though I am a bit disheartened by your attempt to subterfuge vegetables into this final presentation.” 

 

Patrick, however, is all smiles. 

 

“Absolutely brilliant!” He sighs happily. “I knew this challenge would be fun.” 

 

(The grimaces from the contestants would beg to differ.)

 

Delia waltzes up to Patsy as they await the judging. 

 

“So, are you going to let this ex know that you won the vegan challenge?” 

 

“It’s hardly a sure thing, Deels. And no. I’m not. She was absolutely gorgeous but had the personality of Mr. Brocklehurst. She would probably scold me for participating in the Television Industrial complex.” 

 

“Patsy?” 

 

“Oh don’t tell me you think steak is a crime against humanity! Bovinity?” 

 

“Oh, no, I love a hamburger after a long night out. I’m just curious- why didn’t you say ‘she’ when you were talking about her?” 

 

Patsy folds her arms defensively. 

 

“Because it’s nobody’s business. It doesn’t matter, I know, but it’s just one more thing I could be attacked on. And you  _ know  _ the internet is going to have an absolute field day with me.” 

 

“But not with me? You do recall that I baked a rainbow sponge, don’t you?” 

 

Delia’s attempting to cheer her up, but honestly, it just makes the irritation stick in her craw all the more. 

 

“You’re likable Delia. I mean, I should know, I like you very much. But people don’t like me. It’s not that I’m mean, or crass, or rude, especially, it’s just… I think people feel entitled to warmth and affection from women, and that’s really not my forte. I am capable of many things, but niceness is not one of them.” 

 

“And you think I’m just a caricature of femininity?” 

 

Patsy takes in Delia’s worn jeans and scuffed trainers. 

 

“Hardly. But you are open, and honest, and joyful, and the world sees that.” 

 

Delia nods, understanding at last what Patsy’s getting at. 

 

“And you hide the fact that you’re an absolute angel from everyone but me.” 

 

“Something like that, yes.” 

_

 

Shelagh is gracious with her exit. She claims that no amount of practice could have saved her- the mountain of vegan ice cream was just too steep to climb. Delia’s confidence is rewarded- Patsy ekes out a win on presentation and cleverness, though Timothy earns special praise for his scientific achievements. Patsy’s not really in the mood to celebrate on the ride back to London, however. Delia’s admission from the morning still weighs heavily on her mind. 

 

“Is that why you still live at home? The accident, I mean?” 

 

Delia sighs, moving their bodies closer together, both for comfort, and to keep their conversation unheard. 

 

“Aside from money and an utter lack of career mobility, yeah.” 

 

“Do you think you would ever consider coming to London?” 

 

“ _ I’ve  _ considered it plenty, Pats. But convincing her will be difficult. It’s hard to hurt people you love. Even when it’s what  _ you _ need.”

 

They lapse into a companionable silence, thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. 

 

“Although if this is your way of asking me to move in with you, I’ve got to say it’s a bit fast, even for me.” 

 

“Honestly, Delia, if either of us has commitment issues it’s me. And I thought we as a community were past U-Haul jokes. But I wouldn’t be opposed to… sleepovers.” 

 

“We as a community, eh? I daresay you’re making progress yet, Pats. I love a good slumber party myself- perhaps I’ll bring my footed pj’s next time?”

 

“Oh, goodness, no. Those things are a bear to get out of. Best to stick to a nightgown, I think.” 

 

“Left to my own devices, I usually sleep in the nude.” 

 

“Of course you do Delia, of course you do.” 

_

 

The customary selfie Delia sends before heading to bed tonight has a whole new meaning. 

 

_ since we’re not pretending we don’t fancy the pants off of each other anymore- sweet dreams, gorgeous.  _

 

**_I believe I may need a minute before I’m ready to dream. Get over here._ **

 

_ demanding! i like it ;)  _

 

**_I bet you won’t like it as much when you’re on the other end of… actually, knowing you, you would like it very much indeed._ **

 

_ DETAILS, PATSY. i . need. Details.  _

 

Mary Cynthia has decided now is the perfect moment to perch atop Patsys’ right arm, stalling her tentative movements before they’ve properly begun. She snaps a photo with her (blessedly free) left hand. 

 

**_I’m afraid details will have to wait. My “imagination” has been curtailed by feline interference._ **

 

_ she didn’t seem to mind when i had my mouth on you…  _

 

**_Sister Mary Cynthia and I have an agreement to mutually ignore one another’s presence when suitors are present. This courtesy does not extend to solo sexual activity. I can’t dislodge her from her rightful place atop my chest in order to respond to your incessant provocation._ **

 

_ do you always use big words when you’re frustrated?  _

 

**_That energy has to go somewhere. You know, this wouldn’t be a problem if you were here. In my bed. Wearing your “pyjamas.”_ **

 

_ fine. next week i’ll just tell my mam that i’m going home with (to her mind) a stranger and won’t be back in wales until midweek, because i have tonnes of debauchery to catch up on.  _

 

**_Yes. That sounds quite nice. Thank you._ **

 

**_I’m sorry, Delia, I’m being insensitive. Let me be more plain (and polite)._ **

 

**_You are the most attractive person I have ever known and I want to touch every inch of you and then some. I would like to make you forget every word in the English language but my name._ **

 

_ you know, that might actually work. i usually speak welsh in bed, cariad.  _

 

**_A;lfkdjs;adfs;adfsas_ **

 

**_Also, I miss you._ **

 

**_And I’m still in a bit of shock that you like me even the tiniest bit._ **

 

**_I like having you in my bed, and in my life._ **

 

**_I’m sorry about your mother._ **

 

**_And I would absolutely offer to bridge the distance your way, but something tells me that’s an exceptionally bad idea._ **

 

_ something is right.  _

 

_ you know we only have three weeks left? wild, isn’t it?  _

 

_ hey, if we both make the final, you can meet my family at the picnic ;)  _

 

**_Delia. Don’t turn me on and then give my nightmares. That’s just cruel._ **

 

_ oh please. they’ll love you.  _

 

_ i’ll make them.  _

 

_ (kindly give sister mc a belly rub for me, as well as a stern look of disappointment.)  _

 

Patsy dreams of her ex, and her mother, and Delia lying in a hospital bed, confused and battered. She wakes in a cold sweat, her last phantom words on the tip of her tongue. 

  
“ _ How could you forget me? I love you.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see? no death. 
> 
> WE ALREADY LOST SHARON JONES THIS WEEK I DON'T NEED ANYMORE HEARTACHE, DAMMIT. 
> 
> (f u c k 2 0 1 6)


	16. Quiche Lorraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tart week! 
> 
> BEWARE HERE BE PUNS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg 5000 hits! <3 <3 <3 
> 
> thank you for baking with me it's been a pure delight 
> 
> CAN YOU BELIEVE THERE ARE ONLY THREE WEEKS LEFT?!?! 
> 
> what a wild ride. bless.

 

Patsy tries not to catastrophise when Delia doesn’t message her on Monday. She didn’t look terribly unwell, after all, just a bit tired. But when Tuesday morning arrives without so much as a winky-face emoji, she can’t help but worry that something awful has happened. 

 

It’s not like anyone would know to contact her in the event Delia was terribly ill. She would have to wait until the weekend’s filming for any news, the same as all the other contestants. 

 

Fortunately, before she can have a proper freakout, she receives an apology. 

 

_ patsy! you must be worried sick- i’m so sorry i’ve been out of touch.  _

 

_ mam cottoned to my migraine and forbid me from “any and all electronic devices” until i was entirely asymptomatic _

 

_ she’s a bit overprotective- have i mentioned that?  _

 

Patsy smiles at the following pic of Delia simultaneously pouting and rolling her eyes. (Quite impressive.) 

 

**_It’s only because she loves you, Delia. But you are correct- I was starting to fear the worst, I’m afraid. I could never forgive myself if I caused you harm like that!_ **

 

_ pshhhhhhhhh i’m fine.  _

 

_ in fact, i was really hoping to hop a train and come up and see you… but it took hours of debating just to get permission to go to work tomorrow.  _

 

_ christ, i need to move out.  _

 

**_Well, as much as I would love to have you any time, I fear the medical professional in me agrees with your mother._ **

 

**_Would it help or hinder your case if you told her you have a VERY capable nurse to look after you? ;)_ **

 

_ your wink would imply flirtation, and yet  _

 

_ i know that you would be an even stricter warden than mam _

_ it sort of ruins the game, you know?  _

 

**_Your health is not a game, Delia!_ **

 

_ exactly ;)  _

 

Once she knows Delia isn’t lying helpless in a hospital somewhere, Patsy can focus fully on her work. Wednesday is relatively light, her sole delivery a straightforward natural birth. 

 

“Excellent work, Caroline. Would you like baby to meet the rest of her family?” 

 

“Robert’s just gone to fetch them. He’s terribly impatient, that one.” 

 

True to her word, her husband returns, grandparents in tow. 

 

“Well! What are the odds? Thank you, Patsy.” 

 

Patsy is still focused on her patient and the infant, but the rich voice has a familiarity she would recognize anywhere. 

 

“Louise! Your daughter is quite the trooper- you must be awfully proud.” 

 

“And you are quite the nurse- she’s been telling me how wonderful her midwife is, but I had no idea!” 

 

Caroline looks between the two, confusion written on her face. 

 

“Mum, how do you know Nurse Mount?” 

 

Louise doesn’t take her eyes off her beautiful new granddaughter as she explains. 

 

“At the risk of divulging privileged information, we’re one another’s competition.” 

 

Patsy smiles. 

 

“I happen to know that your daughter will have the world’s greatest birthday cake.” 

 

Caroline laughs. 

 

“I might as well have been eating for twins with how many practise bakes she’s done.” 

_ 

 

Barbara adjusts her dog collar as the cameras prepare for the opening shot. 

 

“I borrowed this from my father, you know.” 

 

Trixie gives her bustier one last tug and straightens her shoulders. 

 

“He must be so proud, Babs.” 

 

“Alright contestants, as you well know, we’ve reached tarts week.” 

 

“We shan’t ask you to bake us any vicars, however!” 

 

“We’re starting things off on the savoury end of the spectrum. Patrick and Antonia want to sample the best quiche you have to offer.” 

 

“ _ Un, deux, trois, BAKE _ !” 

_

 

“Tom is really missing out on this week,” Delia smirks, “being a man of the cloth and all.” 

 

Phyllis snorts. 

 

“For Trixie’s sake, I think it’s best that he weren’t present.” 

 

“I don’t know, Phyllis, I rather got the impression that he was enough of a narcissist that he might prefer Barbara’s getup,” Patsy muses. 

 

They look to Louise, expectantly. 

 

“It would be unethical for me to speculate on any sort of diagnosis. But as an informal assessment of personality, I think he would hit on both presenters indiscriminately.” 

 

As the contestants begin whisking their eggs, Barbara makes the (now much shorter) rounds. 

 

“Tim, do you know why they only eat one egg for breakfast in France?” 

 

Tim doesn’t look up from his mixture. 

 

“No, Barbara, I’m afraid I don’t.” 

 

“Because one egg is  _ an oeuf!  _ Get it,  _ an oeuf,  _ enough?” 

 

Trixie gently rests a hand on Barbara’s shoulder. 

 

“Sweetie, he gets it just fine. He’s not laughing because it’s a terrible joke.” 

 

“Oh, I thought it was good,” Delia hollers from the very back of the tent. 

 

“I’m with Trix,” Patsy chuckles, “it was downright… rotten.” 

 

The whole tent groans in unison. 

 

With only a handful of contestants left, the range of the recipes has narrowed. Each participant opts for a relatively traditional interpretation, though Delia has managed an exceptional visual modification.

“Care to explain what’s happening here?” 

 

Trixie gestures at the strangely hued custard before her. 

 

“Well, you see, I love the  _ B-52’s, _ so I wanted to honor their version of Quiche Lorraine.” 

 

“Tell me you haven’t put poodle in there.” 

 

“No, but I did dye it bright green, as it were, with a spinach purée.”

 

The presenter nods in approval, humming the hook to the tune.

 

“You know, I feared you were doing a Dr. Seuss throwback- I must say, this is  _ much _ cooler.” 

 

Barbara and Trixie take it upon themselves to sing the entire song, and all but Tim join in, while he looks on in abject horror. 

 

Delia can’t help but tease.

 

“You don’t know this song? Have you lived under a rock?” 

 

“No, I was born in 1997.” 

 

“Kids these days!” 

 

Patsy rolls her eyes. 

 

“Delia, I’d say you hardly count as an elder in this situation.” 

 

“I thought we discussed this, Pats.I’m several hundred years old, remember?” 

 

“Oh goodness, how rude of me. You look fresh as a daisy!” 

 

This round is free of complete disasters, and judging moves rather quickly. 

 

Phyllis presents a  _ quiche aux champignons,  _ replete with mushrooms she’s gathered from the woods near her home. 

 

“Your crust is ever so slightly underdone, but the filling is perfect,” Patrick appraises. 

 

Antonia looks a bit miserable at the prospect of eating eggs all morning. 

 

Patrick loves Delia’s joke, as usual, and commends her for the flavour of her lardons. 

(Antonia peers at the green quiche distrustfully.) 

 

Fortunately, Patsy’s caramelised onions have a bit of sweetness when paired with her gorgonzola cheese. 

 

“It is not milk and honey, but it will sustain my soul for the moment.” 

 

The liquid from Tim’s tomatoes has led to a soggy bottom on his  _ provençale,  _ while Louise’s use of Fontina in her florentine earns a surprised smile from Patrick. 

 

“I do love an aged cheese.” 

 

Trixie gasps, affronted.

 

“I hope that’s not a crack at Antonia!” 

 

It seems five is the natural threshold for spending breaks as a single group. Patsy checks in with Louise, first and foremost. 

 

“It must have been so hard to leave your granddaughter! Are mother and baby doing well?” 

 

Phyllis immediately demands pictures, while Delia looks a little hurt. 

 

“You didn’t mention anything about running into Louise.” 

 

“You know I don’t talk about patients, Delia, I’m a complete stick in the mud when it comes to ethics.” 

 

Phyllis looks up from cooing over the photos of Caroline and little Julia to appraise the discord between the young women. 

 

“Speaking of patients, are you feeling better, Delia?” 

 

Delia blushes. 

 

“Oh, yes, I just went a little overboard at my cousin’s wedding. The Welsh aren’t known for celebrating timidly.” 

 

Phyllis arches an eyebrow, obviously not buying it, but playing along. 

 

“ _ I’ll say _ .”

_

 

When they return from break, Barbara has changed into a mime costume, while Trixie sports a much less revealing  _ maitre d’s  _  jacket and a false moustache. 

 

“Your quiches were truly egg-cellent. So good, in fact, that we’ve decided to stay in France for the next challenge. _ ” _

 

“Today’s technical is another of history’s serendipitous accidents- the  _ tarte tatin.”  _

 

“How you like dem apples?” 

 

It turns out, they don’t like them very much. 

 

Coring and slicing and arranging the pieces is exceptionally labor intensive, and in a stroke of karma, or sheer boredom, Tim knicks his own hand, though the cut is mended with only a bandage and a latex glove. 

 

Cast Iron is tricky to begin with, and the distraction pushes his apples from deliciously caramelised to disgustingly burnt. Frustrated, he chucks the whole thing and starts again, even though half their time has already past. 

 

“I’d rather serve Antonia applesauce than something bitter.” 

 

Unsurprisingly, Timothy ends up at the bottom of the barrel, his pastry raw and apples too crisp for Antonia’s dentures. 

 

Delia follows, her filling perfect but puff overbaked. 

 

Patsy, Phyllis, and Louise are relatively close, but Phyllis nudges out the win for achieving the “absolute perfect thinness” of apple slice, and a pastry “Like a cloud made of butter.” 

 

Tim is a bit sullen as they head to dinner, but Phyllis and Louise pull him aside for encouragement- they certainly have a fount of life wisdom to share. 

 

“Are you truly cross with me, Delia?” 

 

Patsy feels a bit annoyed at the thought that Delia would expect her to gossip about work, regardless of who she runs into on the ward. 

 

Delia sighs and looks skyward, gathering her thoughts. 

 

“No, no, I mean I understand why you wouldn’t tell me… I think I’m more annoyed with myself, with my mam… I mean, if we’d seen one another in person, I think surely it would have come up?” 

 

Patsy nods, speculating that she might indeed feel more comfortable sharing such a tale face to face. 

 

“It’s more… I hate feeling like I’m not part of your life. Or you’re not part of mine, other than the weekend, you know?” 

 

“That is a drawback to long distance relationships.” 

 

Delia grins. 

 

“So we’re in a relationship now, are we?” 

 

“Delia, any two people who interact have a  _ relationship.  _ Antonia and I have a  _ relationship.” _

 

“That’s not what you meant and you know it. Unless, it is, in which case, I might need to have words with our esteemed judge.” 

 

“Oh, calm down. She’s not my type. Too tall. Not Welsh enough. No dimples.” 

 

“That’s awfully specific.” 

 

“Yes, well, I know what I want, Delia.” 

 

“I’ve applied to a few jobs in London.” 

 

Well. That got serious awfully fast. 

 

“Oh.” 

 

Delia wrings her hands, flustered at Patsy’s (lack of) response. 

 

“I mean, I’d been meaning to do so before I even met you, but it certainly would be nice to be closer, and it’s not like I want to move in together or anything I would just like to be near enough that we’re not doomed before we start you know?” 

 

Patsy grasps her hands, slowing the train of thought before it goes completely off the rails. 

 

“That sounds splendid Delia. I can’t wait until you have your own flat and I can corrupt you all I want.” 

 

They glance over to the other contestants, who appear to be finishing their tête à tête and heading for dinner. 

 

“Now, let’s join the others, shall we? If you’re nice I might even  _ corrupt  _ you under the table.” 

  
(Delia doesn’t have to be told twice.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look y'all i never edit save for painstakingly inserting french accents, so call me on my shit in the comments and i'll fix it. 
> 
> (and yes, i did steal that joke from Margaret on the West Wing.)


	17. Song for a Future Generation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 8 part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as i begin writing this, i'm attempting chickpea cinnamon blondies... we'll see how they, and the chapter turn out o.O

Phyllis regales the group at dinner with a long-winded yarn about partying with Fred Schneider and Kate Pierson in Berlin in the 80s, and Delia listens attentively, whilst caressing Patsy’s thigh under the table. To be fair, she’s relatively chaste, opting eventually to merely hold hands instead of teasing her all evening. 

 

“Do you have photographs?” Trixie leans on her elbows, eager for evidence of the meeting. 

 

“The polaroid is the only way I know it happened! We were all drunk off our asses, amongst other things.” She leans back in her chair and sighs. “Those days are long behind me now. In fact, I daresay it’s getting to be my bedtime.” 

 

Louise yawns with her. “What with Julia coming into the world it’s been a week short on sleep for me. I’ll see you all in the morning.” 

 

Tim is still vibrating with youthful energy, and as much as Patsy wants to go drag Delia into a dark corner somewhere, she’d feel a bit of a tit for leaving him alone.

 

(Or worse, at the mercy of Trixie and Barbara.)

 

The aforementioned presenters make a big show of favoring their aching joints as they stand. 

 

“I suppose these geriatrics will join the others, eh, Babs?”

 

“Trixie, you’re thirty if you’re a day.”

 

Trixie sighs wearily, fumbling to light her cigarette as they step out into the twilight. 

 

“This business ages you, you know? Stay away from it, you whippersnappers.” 

 

Timothy giggles. “I don’t think that anyone would want me onscreen. And Patsy is already sick of the cameras.” 

 

“Can’t argue with you there.” 

 

“Delia, though, she’s kind of got the knack, hasn’t she?” 

 

Barbara nods enthusiastically. “You are rather a natural, Delia.” 

 

Delia waves them off, dismissively. “Oh, I don’t know about all that.” 

 

(Her accent always gets stronger when she’s embarrassed. It’s adorable.) 

 

“Just don’t be gunning for my job,” Trixie warns. “Florence James tried that and look what happened to her.” 

 

Patsy frowns. “Who?” 

 

“Exactly.”  

 

The blonde marches off, puffing away like a locomotive. 

 

“You know, I think she was serious with that threat,” Delia whispers. 

 

“Oh, please, Trixie is sweet as can be. She is an actor, you know. All for show.” Patsy squeezes Delia’s bicep in reassurance. 

 

“All the same, I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you,” Timothy cautions. 

 

“Well, why don’t you two be my security detail for a few rounds of cards then?” 

_

 

“I’m glad you two have finally had it off.” 

 

They’re all sat on Delia’s bed, but it’s a wonder Patsy doesn’t tumble straight to the floor.  She merely sputters a bit while Delia turns to Tim with a scrutinous stare.

 

“How did you know?” 

 

He shrugs, organising his rummy hand. 

 

“I mean, it was fairly obvious when you both showed up for the bus looking like hell and overjoyed about it. To me, anyhow.” 

 

“It does take one to know one.” 

 

Patsy has at least managed to form coherent sentences, at this point. 

 

“Do the others know?” 

 

Tim squints as he thinks. 

 

“I think of those left, yeah, or at least that you’re… close, in a romantic way. Well, Barbara wouldn’t know a queer if Elton John sat on her lap, but yeah, I think Phyllis and Louise are pretty wise, don’t you?” 

 

“We haven’t done anything here, you know,” Patsy gestures to the hotel room. If she can’t deny her feelings, at least she can preserve some semblance of propriety. 

 

“Of course not. You’re paranoid about being seen and Delia’s not really the pushy type.” 

 

He trails off as he plays his next card. 

 

“But we’re all happy for you.”

 

Patsy is still too mortified for gratitude, but Delia smiles and takes his hand in her own. 

 

“Thanks, Tim, you’re very kind. And if you ever need a wingman…” 

 

“Oh, god no, I think I’m all right without one!” 

_ 

 

Tim leaves after one more game, sensing that Patsy needs to vent privately. He apologises to Delia as she walks him down the hall. 

 

“I didn’t mean to stir anything up- dunno, just wanted you to feel like you didn’t have to hide anything if you didn’t want to.” 

 

“It’s all right, Tim. Patsy’s just… Patsy. She’ll come around, I promise. And she’s certainly not upset with you, most likely me. “ 

 

“More likely, herself.” 

 

“You  _ are  _ perceptive, young grasshopper.” 

 

Delia hums as she walks back into the room. 

 

“You’ve been singing that all night, and I feel as though I recognize it, but I can’t place the tune.” 

Delia smirks as she shimmies on her knees atop the mattress. 

 

“ _ I wanna make love to you under the strobe liiiiiighhhhttt”  _

 

Patsy frowns. “That’s a terrible idea, given your history of seizures.”

 

Delia pouts. “I have my work cut out for me, don’t I?” 

 

“What work?” 

 

“Making you fun.” 

 

Patsy arches an eyebrow and gently places her hands atop Delia’s shoulders. 

 

“Oh, I can show you fun, Delia. I bet it’s been ages since you had this much fun in a bed.” 

 

Delia begins to question Patsy’s sudden abandonment of propriety when she gets a great big  _ thwack!  _ To the face. 

 

“A pillow fight? And  _ I’m _ the childish one.”

 

“Come on, Deels, let off a little steam.” Patsy bounces back and forth on the balls of her feet. 

 

“Calm down, Cassius Clay.” Delia returns the volley in force, and soon the room is in shambles, sheets mussed and pillows scattered all over. 

_

 

“You two certainly sounded like you had a good time last night,” Trixie winks, as she saunters up to Delia and Patsy finishing their cups of takeaway coffee. 

 

“Oh, goodness, it is not  _ at all  _ what you think.” Patsy shakes her head vigorously. 

 

Delia grins. “We were pillow fighting! And besides,  Patsy makes this one noise when she-” 

 

  
“-Delia!” 

 

Delia attempts a modicum of contrition. “Sorry Pats- it was too easy to pass up!” 

 

Trixie rolls her eyes. “Okay, love birds, I promise I’ve seen it all, and done more. You couldn’t scandalise me if you tried.” 

 

“Is that a challenge?” 

 

“For the love of god, Delia…” 

_ 

 

“The masterpiece challenge today is a creative interpretation on a classic bakewell tart.” 

 

Trixie and Barbara have eschewed costumery for today, and instead wear funeral black in anticipation of elimination. 

 

“We’ve all fallen madly in love with the lot of you, so we’ll be truly sad to bid one baker  _ adieu  _ today.” 

 

“That said, on your marks, get set, BAKE!... WELL!”

 

The food processors whir as everyone begins their crusts. 

 

“I must say, I’m a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to a bakewell tart, but I suppose these younger contestants might not be as set in their ways,” Louise muses over her pot of jam. 

 

“I’ve gone for a bit of a reese’s cup version,” Tim explains as he removes the ceramic beads from his blind bake. 

 

“That chocolate crust makes it difficult to see when it’s done,” Patrick warns. 

 

“Feeling risky today,” Tim grins. 

 

“You know, when I was about two years old I stuck a baking bean up my nose,” Delia recounts. “Mam had to take me to A & E. She’s still not quite over it.” 

 

“We’ll have to put a disclaimer in the final edit so she can skip over this part then,” Barbara reassures. 

 

When it comes time for judging, Antonia is well pleased at the prospect of only sweets before her. 

 

As Patrick had feared, Tim’s crust is  burnt, but Antonia delights in his peanut frangipone substitute, scraping out the filling from half the tart while summarily ignoring its brick-like shell.

 

Delia also has a chocolate crust, paired with cherry jam and walnut filling for a black forest take. 

 

“Your tart is sinful and decadent, I fear is if I must pay penance for its eating, and yet, I would gladly partake again,” Antonia appraises. 

 

Patsy takes inspiration from Amaretto, marrying apricot jam with a slightly liquered frangipone. 

 

“Unexpected, delicious, and exceptionally neat, as usual.” Patrick nods in approval. 

 

Louise can’t bring herself to stray too far from tradition, opting for raspberry jam and almond filling. “It’s perfect, but unexciting.” Patrick sounds disappointed, but Antonia merely licks her fingers. 

 

Phyllis goes a bit earthier, with fresh fig jam and hazelnut filling. 

 

“It suits your personality to a T,” Patrick smiles, and compliments the clean flavours. 

 

“I find your personality too bitter for my tastes, then,” Antonia harrumphs. 

 

The contestants stay close when the judges leave to make their decision. 

 

“I think I put my foot in it with that crust,” Tim mopes. 

 

“Oh, if there’s one thing the judges hate, it’s boredom,” Louise replies. “It could be either of us leaving.” 

 

“It seemed like Patrick and Antonia were at odds with one another… it could be a while,” Patsy observes.

 

Delia squeezes her hand. “You don’t have any of your amaretto left, do you Patsy?” 

 

“I’m afraid Trixie and Barbara absconded with it,  along with a handsome cameraman. Heaven help us.” 

 

They settle into a bit of an exhausted silence, until Phyllis chimes in. 

 

“Did I ever tell you about the time I had moonshine in the mountains of Kentucky?” 

_ 

 

Barbara and Trixie sport veils as they announce the elimination. 

 

Trixie steps forward, false cheer (and a couple shots of liqueur) radiating from her face. 

“We’ll do the good news first. Today’s winner stunned the judges with her creativity and sense of humour. Congratulations, Delia!” 

 

“See mam, the baking bean incident was totally worth it!” 

 

Barbara waits for the laughter to subside before putting on a brave face. 

 

“We’re sorry to say it, but today is the end of the line for our  _ wunderkind.  _ Goodbye, Tim, we hardly knew ye.” 

 

Tim nods solemnly as the women around him smother him in affection. 

 

Delia and Patsy make sure to pull him aside after exit shots. 

 

“Stay in touch, now, I won’t have you ghosting on me,” Delia warns. 

 

“Oh, please, you two are like the cool lesbian aunts I always wanted. I will  _ demand  _ that you spoil me rotten.” 

 

Patsy grins. “It’s a done deal. Hope you like ugly christmas sweaters!” 

_

 

Delia sits with Tim the whole way back to London, and Patsy can’t bring herself to be annoyed, not when she sees Delia’s conspiratorial grin and the way the disappointed sag in his shoulders lifts as she blathers on about whatever wild plan she’s concocted. 

 

It’s a privilege to have this quiet time to observe Delia. Up until know it’s been a lot of furtive glances, self-consciously monitoring to make sure she’s not caught out. Delia being Delia is a thing of wonder. Patsy can honestly say she’s never met anyone like her. 

 

Watching Delia weakens her guard a bit- she sends an overly sentimental message to her counterpart before she can think better of it. 

 

**_It’s kind of a nice idea, don’t you think? Being “cool lesbian aunts” as it were?_ **

 

_ i don’t think my nephew thinks i’m cool. he says girls are gross.  _

 

_ but he’s also 2. i’ll give it time.  _

 

_ does that mean you don’t want kids?  _

 

**_That’s a bit of a hasty conclusion! I haven’t thought about it too much, honestly. I spend all day surrounded by the birthing process- sort of ruins the magic, you know?_ **

 

_ you’ve seen how the baby sausage is made. i get it.  _

 

_ oh wow that sounded horrible. sorry!  _

 

_ i would love to not have kids with you ;)  _

 

**_You are a ridiculous human being, Delia Busby._ **

**_I like you an incredibly awful lot._ **

**_(Are you completely sure you aren’t an alien?)_ **

 

_ mam assures me i’m her flesh and blood, so we’d all have to be aliens if that were the case.  _

_ i like you an incredibly awful lot, too :D  _

 

Patsy just grins at her ceiling for a few minutes, like an adolescent who’s just been kissed for the first time, before her phone lights up again. 

 

_ thanks for letting me in, pats.  _

 

_ i love each and every part of you i get to discover.  _

 

_ and i look forward to meeting more.  _

  
_ sweet dreams xox _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was tempted to write some angst in for character development, but as you can see, we ended up with PURE FLUFF.


	18. Take Me out Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more non-baking fluff filler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i've gotten a bit behind- thank you for your patience!

 

Patsy wakes on Tuesday morning to a barrage of texts from Delia. 

 

_ so _

 

_ you should know that i didn’t forget that we were supposed to have a sleepover sunday  _

 

_ but mam was NOT ABOUT TO LET ME RISK FURTHER INJURY IN THE MEAN STREETS OF LONDON _

 

_ that said  _

 

_ i have worked my considerable charms and organised my shifts so that i could be in london thursday night _

 

_ if you’ll have me?  _

 

Patsy racks her brain for any potential wrenches before replying. 

 

**_You know, my supervisor has been urging me to take some time off…_ **

 

**_I suppose I could request Friday ;)_ **

 

**_And yes, Delia, I would love to have you._ **

 

**_(If you know what I mean.)_ **

 

_ do i ever!  _

 

_ eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee  _

 

_ (i’m sorry that wasn’t very seductive, was it?)  _

 

_ *clears voice, whispers huskily*  _

 

_ Patsy _

 

_ you can have me as many times as you can manage _

 

_ but i have to warn you  _

 

_ i’m A LOT to handle ;)  _

 

Mary Cynthia joins Patsy in a tandem eye-roll. 

 

**_You’re incorrigible._ **

 

**_I want to bite your thighs._ **

 

_ yes please! _

 

_

 

The week passes quickly, between busy shifts and Patsy’s obsessive cleaning of her flat. Delia sends adorable countdown selfies, dramatically posing alongside ambulances, sheep, and in one particularly impish instance, the back side of her mother.

 

It’s scatterbrained and goofy and ridiculous and if they were the photos of a stranger, Patsy would think Delia silly, at best. But everything she does makes Patsy smile. 

 

It’s sort of ruining this whole ice queen thing she’s been cultivating for the past two decades. 

 

Delia’s train is set to arrive early Thursday evening, leaving plenty of time for a proper date night. They plan out their itinerary on the ride. 

 

_ i’m insisting on forcing you to sit through pretentious art films with me- we only get helen mirren biopics and gross american superhero flicks in pembroke!  _

 

**_I happen to enjoy Dame Helen Mirren’s work!_ **

 

_ so do i! but there’s only so many times one can see The Queen with one’s mother before going a little sour on her oeuvre as a whole.  _

 

_ although, come to think of it, i think i’d relish the opportunity to sit in a dark theatre next to you whilst we watch a film i can recite from memory… i would find plenty of ways to distract you.  _

 

**_Well, if your selection proves too condescendingly dull, I will be sure to take a play from your book ;)_ **

  
  


_ *hurries to research the most boring self-absorbed white boy films currently playing*  _

 

Patsy has a slight hesitation as she sees Delia step onto the platform, unsure of whether or not to bridge the distance between them, or to let Delia set the pace. But she is unable to remain self-conscious when Delia breaks into a wide grin and practically skips over to her. They hug one another tightly, Delia’s overnight bag tossed carelessly onto the pavement. 

 

“I missed you,” Patsy exhales into Delia’s shoulder, leaning into the shorter woman before pulling back. “Is that too needy to say?” 

 

“Not at all. I missed you too, Pats. But you are worth every second of the wait.” 

 

She takes a moment to absorb Patsy’s (admittedly disheveled) appearance. She’s still wearing scrubs and trainers, having come straight from work. Her fringe sports a few flyaways that ran away from their home in her braid. 

 

Delia looks at her like she’s wearing a lace negligee in the middle of the station. 

 

Feeling a bit exposed, Patsy clears her throat. “Shall I help you with your bag, then? We’re just a couple stops away from mine, then I’ll change and I can take you out to dinner, if you’d like.” 

 

Delia beams. “I’d like that very much.” 

 

The hustle and bustle of the tube make conversation more difficult than either of them have energy for, so they merely sit as close to one another as possible. Delia threads her fingers through Patsy’s, energy vibrating off of her in waves. 

 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Patsy murmurs. 

 

“I can’t believe I’m here either! It’s like Christmas come early.” 

 

Patsy frowns. 

 

“I don’t like Christmas.” 

 

Delia gasps. 

 

“You know, that might be a deal breaker. I go all-out. Ugly jumpers, extravagant hidden gifts, off-key joyful singing…” 

 

“Well, you’ve already changed my mind about the ethics of televised competition. I suppose mustering up enthusiasm for Yule won’t be terribly difficult for you.” 

 

“That’s the spirit.” 

_ 

 

Patsy makes to excuse herself to change after she carries Delia’s bag up into her flat. 

 

(And perhaps shower, too. She’s absolutely certain she smells horrid.) 

 

“Not so fast.” 

 

Delia grabs a handful of her scrub-top, pulling her close. 

 

“Delia, I’m disgusting.” 

 

“Firstly, no, not at all. Secondly,” Delia kisses her softly, “I don’t care in the slightest.” 

 

Patsy melts into the kiss for a few seconds before logic gets the best of her. 

 

“But which is it, Deels? Am I perfectly clean or are you just willing to overlook my odiferousness? A girl doesn’t like to receive mixed messages.”

 

Delia swats her playfully toward the shower. 

 

“Go on, then, get cleaned up. Heavens knows you’ll be of no use to me until your mind is at ease. Shall I put a kettle on?” 

 

Patsy’s eyes twinkle with gratitude. 

 

“That would be lovely. Thank you. I’m sorry I’m like this.” 

 

“Don’t be. I lo- I like you just the way you are.” 

 

Patsy merely arches an eyebrow as Delia blushes, and saunters confidently to the shower. 

 

When scoured clean of any and all evidence of the day’s work, she dons a pair of jeans and a white v-neck, until she knows for certain how posh Delia wants their night out to be. 

 

There’s a mug of tea awaiting her on the counter, and Delia lounges on the sofa flipping through a well worn coffee table book of pinups. 

 

“Getting ideas for roleplay, Deels?” 

 

“If you’re into it,” she mutters distractedly before realizing that Patsy is stood in front of her once more. 

 

“Oh. Hello, you. You know, these dress shapes would look marvelous on your figure. Not that you don’t look incredible in everything just-” 

 

“-I have the hips for an A-Line skirt, I know. Childbearing hips, my grandmother called them.” Patsy pulls a face of mild disgust at that one. 

 

“What, you don’t want children?” Delia’s face washes over with disappointment for the briefest of moments. 

 

“I certainly don’t want to give birth to them. I get quite enough of that particular miracle of the human body at work. And I get plenty of youthful exuberance from the cubs.” 

 

“Well, when you put it that way… I suppose if someone asked me if I wanted an elderly person with a fractured hip for my very own, I would probably respectfully decline.” 

 

Patsy takes the proffered book and returns it to its rightful home before perching alongside Delia on the sofa.

 

“Are you hungry? We’ve plenty of options, depending on how much you’d like me to dote on you.” 

 

Delia giggles, moving closer to run a hand down Patsy’s shoulder onto the bare skin of her arm. 

 

(She’s never really thought much of arms as an erogenous zone, but if the way she shivers is any indication, well…) 

 

“I think I could wait to eat…” 

 

Patsy’s plenty smart enough to know that any date decisions will need to be postponed for a bit. She brings a hand behind Delia’s neck to pull her in close. 

 

“I take it I smell tolerable enough for close contact?” 

 

“Patsy, you know just what to say to really get a girl going,” Delia huffs. 

 

“I can stop at any moment, you know,” Patsy counters, teasing Delia by putting a downright  _ cruel  _ foot of space between them.

 

“ _ Don’t you fucking dare.”  _

_ _ _

 

By the time Patsy finally makes to check her watch, it’s half past midnight. 

 

“I don’t suppose you want a pizza, do you?” 

 

Delia stretches, sated and exhausted. 

 

“I always want pizza. Actually, no. I want pancakes.” 

 

Patsy extricates herself from the sheets. 

 

“I suppose I could manage them, given that you’re already good and well smitten with me.” 

 

“I won’t apologize for wearing my heart on my sleeve,” Delia yawns, throwing an arm over an ambivalent Mary Cynthia. 

 

“I have a confession,” Patsy whispers, waking Delia with a hot plate of carbohydrates, “The only other person I’ve made these for is Tony.” 

 

“Do you mean to say you’re leaving me for him?” Delia murmurs around a mouthful. 

 

“Because as long as I get to finish these first, I’ll manage.” 

 

“Well, primarily I meant that I don’t allow too many people to sleep over here. So, consider yourself special.” 

 

“I know I’m special,” Delia winks, “I’m in the semi-final of  _ GBBF!” _

 

“I’d almost forgotten about that. I don’t know what it says about me that I was more looking forward to you being here than I was to the weekend.” 

 

Delia pecks her on the cheek. 

 

“I think it says that you have your priorities in order.” 

_ 

Patsy normally uses her days off productively; waking early, running errands, making use of any free hours to a gainful end. But Delia insists on being as indulgent as possible today. 

 

“You deserve a lie in, Pats. Besides, it would be an absolute shame for you to put on clothing any earlier than strictly necessary.” 

 

“I was thinking it might be nice to run to the shop in the buff. I might score a hefty discount!” 

 

Having exhausted her meagre non-baking groceries, they eventually concede to a late breakfast, followed by a matinee. There’s something about being with Delia that feels right, natural. No, natural’s not quite the word… it feels, broken in, like a well-worn shoe. A lifetime of experience has somehow put Patsy into the shape where Delia fits perfectly. Perhaps it’s not meant to last, perhaps it will take some work to go the distance, but at this very moment, they are meant to be with one another. 

 

“At the once, it both feels like we’ve been married for fifty years, and that this is all just a dream and I’m bound to wake,” Patsy muses, as they walk aimlessly through the neighborhood. 

 

“You’ve aged remarkably well, Pats,” Delia flirts. “I get your meaning though. I suppose the filming experience is so singularly intense that it feels like we’ve really been through the fire together. You’ve seen me at my worst.” 

 

“Bleeding profusely and yet utterly charming? I dare say you’ve had a harder time of it with me.” 

 

Delia scoffs. “I’m not perfect you know. And it won’t do either of us any good for you to beat yourself up when I’ve already forgiven you.” 

 

“You’re right. I can think that you’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever known without holding you to an unattainably high standard.” 

 

“Exactly.” 

 

Patsy sighs, unable to keep pragmatism from colouring her enjoyment of the day. 

 

“I don’t want it to end.” 

 

“The baking? I don’t know, I’m almost sick of ovens at this point.” 

 

“Not the baking explicitly, just the magic of it all… I’m afraid that when it’s all done we’ll just retreat into the safety of our routines.” 

 

Delia stops her in her tracks with a firm hand upon her shoulder. 

 

“Honestly, I could care less about the cameras and the awards and the puns, okay? I don’t want glamourous exciting adventure with you. I want Sunday Crosswords and squabbles over the electric bill, and the ability to complain about your cold feet every single night but loving the fact that they’re in my bed. I want the boring stuff.” 

  
“I want that, too,” Patsy concedes, softly. “But lest you think that I am only a sad and lonely cat lady, I do fully intend on giving you a proper night on the town.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> december is a very busy time for people who make sounds for the enjoyment of others- updates might be a bit more sparse in the coming weeks, but I hope to have this finished (oh gosh don't hold me to it) by the time the xmas special airs. 
> 
> (also geez if i could write fiction as quickly as i write songs this shit would literally be a million words long. my computer and i are in a bit of a tiff at the moment)


	19. I've Got You, Babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SEMIFINAL WEEK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can y'all believe we're almost done? WHOAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

 

“How are you _not_ hungover?”

 

Patsy grins as she cheerfully brings Delia a much needed cup of coffee.

 

“Well, I cottoned on pretty early that Tony kept sending me off to fetch more drinks so that he could interrogate you. After my second g & t I switched to Perrier. Nothing like vigilant hydration to combat the effects of formaldehyde!”

 

“Spoken like a true nurse,” Delia grumbles, taking a moment to survey her disheveled state. “Are you covered in glitter, or is that also my cross to bear alone?”

 

“Seeing as you and Tony designated me as official ‘holder of bags’ so that you could dance with the horde of drag queens, I managed to spare myself.”

 

Delia nods, sipping from her mug. “Tony’s a great dancer. Did he leave with ‘Emma Tops Some’?”

 

Patsy nods in the affirmative. “But not before assuring me that you were not only an absolute delight and wonderful young woman, but a much better wingwoman than I’ve ever been.”

  


“Do you suppose I have time for a shower? I don’t think the crew will appreciate sparkly skin in edits.”

 

“Go on. I’ll make breakfast while you’re de-shimmering.”

 

Patsy finishes plating their eggs just as Delia walks out into the kitchen, hair turbaned in a fluffy white towel.

 

“Do I look more human, and less Twilight vampire?”

 

Patsy abandons the plates to get a closer look.

 

“I don’t know,” she swoops in to kiss the underside of Delia’s jaw, “I might need to inspect closer to ensure you didn’t miss a spot.”

 

“Mmmmmm, that feels lovely, but I really don’t want to risk getting sick all over you. Still trying to maintain the illusion of sexiness, you know?”

 

Patsy concedes, and offers breakfast by way of apology.

 

“For what it’s worth, I would absolutely still find you attractive, I’d just be more concerned with your well-being.”

 

“Patsy, did the _Exorcist_ leave an imprint on your young psyche?”

 

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean that you’re incredible, and beautiful, and too clever for your own good, and it would take a lot more than a bit of vomit for my adoration of you to diminish in the slightest.”

 

Delia beams, kissing Patsy on the cheek as she clears the table.

 

“Duly noted.”

_

 

This morning, Barbara toddles around in a cartoonish fish costume.

 

“Congratulations on making the semifinal, ladies!”

 

“Today is fry week,” Trixie gestures at Barbara,”so prepare to grease up the judges, but don’t splatter!”

 

“Patrick would like to start the weekend with a dozen of your finest empanadas. Uniform in size, shape, doneness, and deliciousness.”

 

“Antonia is counting the minutes until you make her doughnuts.”

 

Phyllis immediately starts into another tale as the cameras get footage of their prep work.

 

“I had a bit of a fling with an Argentine gaucho one glorious summer. I don’t eat beef, but he taught me his grandmother’s empanada recipe, and it just felt right to replicate that here. Wherever you are Juan, _muchos gracias_.”

 

“Honestly, we need to do a reunion special of Phyllis and all her paramours,” Barbara muses. “We’d probably set a new ratings record.”

As they prepare their fryers, Patsy explains her filling choice.

 

“I’ve gone for a Mallorcan interpretation; sauteed chard and pine nuts.”

 

“Antonia won’t care for that bitterness at all, will she,” Trixie tuts.

 

“No, but I dare say she will have an opinion on the origins of the empanada, so we call all look forward to an obscure lecture.”

 

“It’s actually pretty interesting,” Delia pipes up, having found her vigour after a few more cups of coffee and pilfered pastries. “References to empanadas appeared in Portugal around the time they opened up trade with the Indian subcontinent, so they may be closely related to the samosa.”

 

Louise, quietly concentrating  up until now, offers a different opinion.

 

“I believe that it’s merely a case of practicality- it’s much easier to eat one’s lunch when it’s pre-packaged in bread.”

 

“Practically scrumptious,” Barbara retorts, spooning a bit of Louise’s chicken mixture into her mouth.

 

They proceed to measure the temperature of their oils. Louise opts for a relatively flavourless vegetable oil, while Patsy chooses olive oil. Delia and Phyllis resort to beef tallow.  

 

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think of myself right now, but I’m a stickler for authenticity,” Phyllis moans.

 

“I’m just old-fashioned,” Delia offers. “It’s actually sort of more ecological to use the lard, waste not want not and all that.”

 

“Do you worry about not being able to taste your filling, Phyllis,” Trixie wonders.

 

“Oh, I learned to stop worrying years ago, love. It’s an absolute waste of time. They’ll turn out, or they won’t, but worrying won’t do anything about that but raise my blood pressure!”

 

“Phyllis,” Patsy calls from the front of the tent, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered life coaching? I’m fretting a bit over these crusts.”

 

The color on her empanadas is lovely, but two have split along the seam.

 

“What’s done is done, Patsy. See it through.”

 

Patrick is not happy with Patsy’s presentation, but he does praise her flavours and the composition of the intact empanadas.

 

Antonia, as expected, is not a fan of chard. “I enjoy finding challenges from life itself, but not from the act of eating. This should be a pleasure, and not a drudgery!”

 

Phyllis’s Argentinian iteration literally makes Patrick cry, it’s so perfect.

 

“Time hasn’t dulled your recollection in the slightest,” Barbara observes.

 

“Yes,” Phyllis sighs wistfully, “I can still remember Juan’s thighs, clear as day…”

 

Delia’s Filipino empanadas earn high marks, though not quite at the level of Phyllis.

 

“These flavours are very different from what you usually provide us, but delicious nonetheless,” Patrick observes.

 

Louise, however, has made the fatal mistake of overfilling her fryer, leading to undercooked, greasy empanadas.

 

Antonia doesn’t mind.

 

“I welcome a chance to reprieve my palate from the aggression of the day. Bless you, kind woman.”

 _

“Not my finest hour,” Louise comments over her turkey-and-rye.

 

(There’s really no pretense for splitting up now, so the quartet sit on a blanket in the sun, picnic style. Patsy thinks it feels a bit like a chaperoned date. )

 

“There’s plenty more chances for the rest of us to muck it up,” Delia offers, kindly.

 

“I’m not sure I want a victory based on schadenfreude.”

 

“It’s still anyone’s game yet, girls, and who knows what the technical challenge will hold.”

 

Patsy has a bit of an idea.

 

“I’d be willing to bet my next paycheck that it’s sickeningly sweet.”

 

Delia places a hand over her heart.

 

“Our dear Antonia, steadfast among even the most turbulent of waves, in search of sugar.”

_

 

True to Patsy’s prediction, the technical challenge is rather saccharine- Zeppole di San Giuseppe, replete with pastry cream and syruped cherries.

 

This go round, Delia’s Zeppole collapse and lose their shape, though the pastry cream is perfect. Phyllis has more structural integrity, but has applied too much syrup, leaving her dough soggy and sticky. Louise has a much stronger showing, but Patsy’s finesse in plating (she’ll be damned if she makes the same mistake twice) earns her another technical victory.

 

“I’m afraid I’ll come across as a robot at this point,” she bemoans, as they pack up and get ready to head out for dinner.

 

“Nonsense,” Phyllis poo-poos, “You’re skilled. Competence in the kitchen is a lost art.”

 

“Phyllis is right,” Delia asserts, “I can barely chop an onion to save my life.”

 

“Yes, but you have personality in spades.”

 

“Don’t you know it!”

 

Phyllis pauses in front of the lift once they reach the hotel’s lobby.

 

“Ladies, I’m feeling a bit worn down by a day spent over the fryer- would you all be terribly offended if I opted for takeaway and a night in? I don’t have the boundless energy of my youth anymore.”

 

Delia laughs. “I don’t have the boundless energy of your youth either. I think a night in sounds delightful, as much as I’ve enjoyed spending the day with all of you.”

 

Louise gauges the nonverbal communication between Patsy and Delia, before making her offer.

 

“Patsy, if you aren’t feeling terribly tired, I wouldn’t mind having a bit of company for dinner?”

 

Delia honestly does look exhausted, and not like she’s attempting to get some alone time, so Patsy agrees to join Louise.

 

“This has been such a lovely experience, hasn’t it? There’s something wonderful about this shared hobby throwing all of us together like this,” Louise comments as she dresses her salad.

 

“The producers certainly cast for personality as well as skill, don’t they?”

 

“I think Phyllis and Delia take care of most of the heavy lifting for us, but it’s certainly entertaining to be around them,” Louise laughs.

 

“I don’t know, Louise, it’s the quiet ones that surprise you.”

 

She nods. “That’s right. We’re always taking it all in, assessing and evaluating.”

 

“Takes one to know one?”

 

Louise chews thoughtfully.

 

“I’ve been a clinical observer so long it’s almost second-nature to me now to give other people space. I sense from you that part of your quietness comes from genuine reserve, and the other from fear.”

 

“I don’t like a lot of attention drawn to myself, I suppose.”

 

“Or just not the wrong kind of attention? I don’t meant to overstep, but you have a commanding physical presence- the way you carry yourself demands respect.”

 

“I’m sure you know well how important controlling a space without saying a word can be.”

 

Louise smiles gently. “Certainly. I only mean to say that I sense that you hold back from perhaps saying what you would really like to because you’re afraid of how others will react.”

 

Patsy’s a little unnerved at how Louise has shifted from unassuming grandmother to razor-sharp psychoanalyst in a matter of minutes, but she tries her best to go with the flow.

 

“All right, I’ll try to fix that. You really, really, stuffed up those empanadas this morning. Downright awful.”

 

Louise laughs, rich and full, and pays the bill for both of them, despite Patsy’s protests.

 

“You did me the favour by providing excellent conversation. We need young women to keep us on our toes. But I won’t keep you any longer, I’m sure you’d like to pop in on Delia before it’s too late.”

 

Patsy blanches a bit, despite Tim’s assertion that their relationship is a non-issue.

 

“I’m sure she’s already fast asleep.”

 

Louise nods, imperceptibly.

 

“Like I said, Patsy. Fear is a lousy reason to avoid doing the things that will bring you happiness.”

_

 

Delia is quick to respond when Patsy raps lightly on her door.

 

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

 

“No, just reading. I may or may not have eaten an entire pizza by myself.”

 

“Remember what I told you this morning?”

 

“Wait, so puke is all right but gluttony is a turnoff?”

 

Patsy grasps her wrist and leads them both back to bed.

 

“No, I was going to say that I’m a bit jealous of how close you and that pizza have gotten, but I still find you devastatingly attractive.”

 

Delia yawns, and its apparent that she’s been fighting off sleep in order to wait up for Patsy.

 

“But, tonight, you are exhausted, so I’ll reign in my envy that you might sleep.”

 

Delia smiles lazily and pulls Patsy down to lie beside her.

 

“Will you even be the big spoon?”

 

“Just this once.”

_

 

Barbara is absolutely giddy as they assume their places in the tent Sunday morning.

 

“Today is my favorite day of the year!”

 

Trixie rolls her eyes. “She’s more excited for this than I was for the royal wedding.”

 

“It’s DOUGHNUT DAYYYYYY!!!!”

 

“What Babs means to say, is that Antonia and Patrick would like to see and artisitcally composed display of a dozen of your finest filled donuts, and a dozen of the traditional ring style.”

 

Barbara is jumping up and down at this point.

 

“On your marks! Get set! Doughnut!!!”

 

Barbara’s enthusiasm is infectious, and the contestants have a bit of extra pep in their step as they mix their dough.

 

“I’ve decided to really lean into my carnivorous identity,” Delia quips, “so I’m opting for a maple-bacon ring donut and bavarian-creme filled for the others.”

 

She points to wooden platters she’s brought from home.

 

“A dozen on the pig and a dozen on the cow.”

 

Patsy isn’t quite so facetious in her choice.

 

“I really love a nice apple cider donut on a cool autumn day, and then I’ve made an espresso-infused custard as filling. Sort of a duo of hot-drink inspired donuts.”

 

“Will you be serving tea with them to complete the trinity,” Barbara wonders.

 

“I’m afraid my tea making skills would detract from the quality of my baking.”

 

Louise has a tropical theme today, with coconut-crusted ring donuts and key lime filled. Her frying appears to go much better today, and she says that as long as the flavours are right, she feels good about it.

 

Phyllis makes a beautiful fresh raspberry jam for her berliners, and pairs them with an old-fashioned sour cream cake donut, “dense and hearty, just like me”.

 

Antonia approaches this judging with much more gusto. She begins with Patsy.

 

“If I am Atalanta, and you are Melanion, I should not mourn that these golden apples be my downfall.”

 

(“Did she just propose to you?” Delia whispers behind tears of laugher.)

 

Delia’s sight gag earns a delighted chuckle from Patrick. Antonia assesses the bakes with solemn approval.

 

“The salt was made to bring out the sweet. You have brought a more joyous purpose to this swine than a sandwich or a roast, and in doing so, have done it a great honour.”

 

Patrick is overjoyed that Louise’s technique is flawless, and finds her flavours refreshing.

 

Antonia sighs happily at Phyllis’s offering.

 

“I am transported to the simpler days of my youth, of joy and happiness, unencumbered by weariness for the world.”

 

(She speaks reverently into the omniscient raspberry eye of the Berliner.)

 

“Ladies, I dare say we made a good showing of it today!” Phyllis claps them all on the back in congratulations.

 

“We’ve done our gender proud,” Patsy agrees.

 

“I never want to see another donut as long as I live,” Delia groans, looking up from the plate she’s stacked high with everyone’s leftovers, “but these were very good.”

 

Louise looks peaceful, but resigned.

 

“We did all do remarkably well today. I certainly won’t be ashamed to leave at this point.”

 

They would move to argue against her, to reassure her, but all things considered, it would take a real shock for Louise not to go home.

 

The dismissal is brief, given how few hugs are left to go round at this point. Trixie gets the good news this week.

 

“Our victor today merged authentic old world flavours with flawless technique and a real sense of place. Congratulations, Phyllis!”

 

“Juan, if you’re out there, you’re really missing out, I’m telling you,” Barbara yells at the camera, a dot of jam smudging her nose.

_

 

It’s late when Delia and Patsy get back to her flat. They are exhausted, and elated, and more than a bit wired.

 

“I can’t believe we made the final,” Patsy whispers, as they lie atop her bed, Mary Cynthia aggressively snuggling her(to make amends for the weekend’s absence).

 

“I can’t believe it will all be over next week.”

 

“Not for you, Deels. They love you. And the world will love you. Anything you want after this, you’ve got it, whether you win or not.”

 

Delia props herself up on an elbow to look into Patsy’s eyes.

 

“What if I want you?”

 

Patsy opens her arms in surrender.

 

“Then you’ve got me.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i'll probably have 2 more chapters and an epilogue, but i'm the most haphazard writer you'll ever meet, so WE SHALL SEE. 
> 
> thank you as always for the comments and messages. you're all the fucking coolest <3


	20. Wedding Bell Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE PENULTIMATE CHAPTER! 
> 
> Final week, day 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brought to you by antibiotics and americanos! 
> 
> <3 <3 <3

“I swear to god, if you make me eat another Mexican Wedding Cake, I will literally catch the next flight to Cancun just to get away from you.” 

 

Tony is sprawled out dramatically on the sofa, clutching his stomach. Sister Mary Cynthia swats idly at the icing sugar that dusts the platter where a dozen biscuits once sat. 

 

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” 

 

“Save it for Delia.” 

 

Patsy rolls her eyes, cleaning up the mess as Tony adamantly refuses to do anything but nurse his new food baby. 

 

“Seriously though, you’ve got this in the bag. You’ve got as much a chance as anyone to win this, if you don’t self-sabotage.” 

 

She bites her lip, thinking about what winning would entail. 

 

“You know, I’m not entirely certain I  _ do _ want to win. It’s an awful lot of press and that sort of thing, and I have a hard time enough with the cameras when my hands are busy. I’m afraid I’d come across as terribly boring, or completely bonkers.” 

 

“No, you’re just afraid of strangers on the internet developing crushes on you.” 

 

“Can’t argue with that. Especially men.” She shudders. “Ugh. Is it too late for me to rescind my initial application?” 

 

Tony manages to push himself into a sitting position in order to comfort her. 

 

“Hey, I’m sure Delia would be more than happy to kick their arses if they so much as  _ look _ at you.” 

 

Patsy blushes a bit at the image of Delia enacting out her most misandrist fantasies. Her mobile pings, as if Delia had sensed she were the subject of conversation. 

 

Tony heaves himself up to stand, making an exaggerated gesture of checking his watch. 

 

“I’ve got to go get ready for my date. Enjoy your Wednesday night sext marathon, or whatever it is you two do.” 

 

“But you are coming to the picnic, yes?” 

 

He envelops her into a bone-crushing hug. 

 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, you fool. Please don’t forget to eat or sleep between now and then. Mary Cynthia has promised to report back to me if you don’t practise adequate self-care.” 

 

Patsy’s screen lights up again, and Tony pushes her to answer her messages as he departs for romance and adventure. 

 

Delia’s grin pops up in her inbox, flecks of white dusting her brown hair. 

 

_ i would not recommend sending an allergetic dog thru one’s kitchen when using icing sugar.  _

 

**_I’m equal parts enamoured and disgusted, to tell you the truth._ **

 

_ that’s what i was going for ;) keep ‘em interested, but leave just a little bit of disbelief as to why, i always say.  _

 

**_Oh, I know good and well WHY I’m interested in you, Delia Busby._ **

 

_ is that so?  _

 

**(** Maybe Tony wasn’t so far off in his agenda for her evening’s activities.) 

 

**_You’ve just got such a magnificent, decadent, mouthwatering_ **

 

**_Brain_ **

 

_ it is the body’s largest sex organ, you know!  _

 

**_Oh God, I’m a bit afraid for us if this is how we dirty talk._ **

 

_ it works for me just fine, pats. I can’t get enough of your brain.  _

 

_ (though you do have the most magnificent breasts i’ve ever seen, for what it’s worth.)  _

 

**_I should hope you haven’t seen too terribly many. A girl likes to feel special, you know._ **

 

_ just enough to be an eminently qualified judge.  _

_ and yours are tops  _

 

(She punctuates this with a series of ridiculous emoji. Delia has a true gift for pictorial communication.) 

 

**_Speaking of tops…_ **

**_When can I see you again?_ **

**_(Preferably naked, in my bed, but beggars can’t be choosers.)_ **

 

_ *sobbing face*  _

_ please don’t hate me  _

_ mam has insisted on spending the entire weekend at the hotel _

_ “It doesn’t make sense to travel all that way if we won’t get a proper holiday out of it”  _

_ And as much as i would love to ditch her…  _

 

**_Your sense of propriety and daughterly duty won’t allow you to forsake familial obligations in favour of debauchery. I get it._ **

 

_ i’m sorry pats, honestly  _

 

**_Just so long as you don’t ditch me after your victory, I suppose I’ll manage._ **

 

There’s a long pause, during which Patsy worries that she’s come off (again) too desperate. 

 

But her fears are gloriously quelled when, fifteen minutes later, she receives another photo from Delia. 

 

Who has just showered. 

 

As evidenced by the beads of water dripping down her very naked body. 

 

**_Is this your way of atonement?_ **

 

_ would you prefer i ask for forgiveness on my knees?  _

**_Delia, I hope you understand that I can’t compete against you this weekend if you kill me right now._ **

 

_ ;) _

_ _ _

 

Barbara has really outdone herself in terms of ridiculous kits. She wears an ill-fitting tuxedo, power blue and straight out of the seventies, complete with ruffled shirt and the world’s ugliest tophat. Trixie, unenthusiastically going along with the sight gag, wears a more modest (or at least less offensively garish) wedding dress, similarly “vintage.” 

 

“That’s right, bakers,” Trixie sighs, “Our final has a theme that everyone loves. Weddings!” 

 

Barbara pulls out a hankie from her breast pocket. 

 

“I always cry at these things.” 

 

“You sentimental old fart.” 

 

“Just because I’m not heartless, Trix…” 

 

“Anyhow, Antonia would like to begin our final week of competition with your interpretation of a Wedding classic. Sometimes referred to as Russian Tea Cakes, or Italian Wedding Biscuits, or Mexican Wedding Biscuits, or Greek Wedding Biscuits… whatever you call your special occasion butterballs, we would like to taste 100 of your best, most uniform creations.” 

 

“Remember to make extra, because I  _ will  _ be eating as many as I can fit in these giant pockets.” 

 

Barbara gestures to her billowy trousers. 

 

“Honestly, how you even fit in that waistcoat with the way you eat is a sheer miracle.” 

 

“I’ve got the genes, Trix. I was  **made** for this job.” 

 

“On that note, bakers, you have three hours. On your marks, get set, bake!” 

 

Despite using Tony as a guinea pig, Patsy feels a bit nervous about the morning’s challenge. Like all shortbreads, the recipe is deceptively simple. Butter, sugar, flour, water, nuts. But an ordinary biscuit will not do, and one hundred identical cakes is no small feat. 

 

“I’ve decided that since South America is lucky for me, I’ll use Brazil nuts in my dough,” Phyllis muses, mixing her ingredients by hand. 

 

“I’m opting for the traditional Mexican use of pecan,” Delia explains, pulling out a liquor bottle, “but I’m pairing it with bourbon for a bit of a kick.” 

 

“Don’t let Barbara have too many of those, or she’ll be sick all over that hideous suit,” Trixie admonishes.  “Actually, let her have as many as she likes.”

 

The aforementioned blue bandit checks in on Patsy’s station. 

 

“What nut are you choosing for today, Patsy?” 

 

“I’m opting for a macadamia, paired with the obligatory white chocolate and raspberry jam.” 

 

Barbara stuffs a handful of white chocolate shavings into her mouth before bantering with Delia. 

 

Tony must have jinxed her, because Patsy’s nuts burn both times she tries to toast them, until she’s forced to accept defeat and turn out the best bitter-aftertaste biscuit she can muster. 

 

(It’s not good enough for Antonia.) 

 

“Would that I had a pot of this jam free of the taint of acrimony. She deserves a nobler vessel than the one you have provided.” 

 

Delia and Phyllis appear fairly even (compared to Patsy’s amateur mistake), with Delia edging out Phyllis on presentation (100 tiny shot glasses for her biscuits), and Phyllis winning a few extra points for slightly more nuanced flavours. 

 

“You transport us with your bakes,” Patrick muses, around a mouthful of biscuit,” to places I have never been, but can picture perfectly.” 

 

Everything feels heavier today. The weight of emotional labour in front of the cameras, the importance of the challenges. Even without all their friends and colleagues watching, it’s a lot to handle. Tomorrow is sure to be even worse. 

 

“It’s a bit ironic that they picked this final for us three,” Phyllis laughs, as they sit under a shady oak for lunch. “A confirmed spinster and two…” 

 

“Lesbians is fine,” Delia chirps. 

 

“- two lesbians. It’s not exactly Bridal Digest, is it?” 

 

“I’m certain they had the theme picked out before they even cast any of us,” Patsy hypothesizes. 

 

“It probably took months to find Barbara’s tux,” Delia grins. 

“I’m willing to bet she suggested the theme just so she would have an excuse to wear it,” Patsy counters. 

 

“Regardless, I couldn’t think of two more lovely competitors to share an un-wedding day with.” 

 

Phyllis toasts the younger women with her water bottle. 

 

“Cheers!” 

_

 

The technical challenge is certainly worthy of the final- a Kransekage, 18 concentric layers of a soft and chewy Danish cake. It’s a daunting structural feat, and that’s not even taking into account the temperamental nature of egg whites. 

 

“They say that however many layers stick to the top layer when it’s removed is how many children a couple will have,” Barbara informs the cameras. 

 

“I’m afraid my top layer will have to stand alone!” 

 

Phyllis doubles over in laughter at her own joke. 

 

Trixie makes the rounds as they pore over the recipes and gauge what pans to use and how many layers to bake at once. 

 

“Have any of you three ever thought about what your dream wedding would look like?” 

 

Phyllis jumps in without pause. 

 

“I was engaged to a Scottish man briefly, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of bagpipes on a day that’s supposed to be happy. And then he expected me to quit work, so that was that.” 

 

“And you, Patsy?” 

 

“I think marriage is largely the effect of heteronormative assimilation. I’ve no interest in the institution.” 

 

“Fierce and feminist, I like it! And you, Deels?” 

 

The brunette looks almost shy. 

 

“I quite like the idea of a big wedding with family and friends, actually. I suppose I’m old-fashioned in that way, or a product of assimilation.” 

 

Her eyes narrow imperceptibly at Patsy, who moves to backtrack. 

 

“I don’t mean to yuck anyone else’s yum, but the whole marriage and babies thing isn’t really on my radar.” 

 

Delia stares at her oven perhaps more intently than is necessary. 

 

Patsy brushes the exchange off her shoulders and moves to cool her layers as quickly as possible so that she can have time to spare for decoration. She can write off a fluke in the morning’s challenge, but technique is her forte. Might as well give it a strong showing and then muck up properly tomorrow. 

 

Delia’s hands shake as she assembles her tower, and while it remains standing, it’s slight tilt puts her behind Phyllis, and Patsy’s flawless icing nets her the win. After shooting their takeaways, she rushes to catch up to Delia, whose shorter legs are doing their very best to outpace her. 

 

“Delia, wait, I didn’t mean all that. I mean, I did, but not that way-” 

 

Delia turns around, showing a bit of mercy before Patsy really puts her foot in it. 

 

“Relax, it’s not exactly like we’re to the point of babies and marriage.” 

 

“I think it’s sweet that you want that, honestly,” 

 

Delia’s eyes darken and her tone turns chilly. 

 

“ _ Sweet.  _ Thanks, Pats, good to know you think so highly of me. Am I also  _ adorable?  _ Maybe even  _ cute?”  _

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

(She’ll say it a million times over if it will make a lick of difference. Anything else will probably dig her deeper into the hole.) 

 

“Yeah, me, too.” 

 

“Let me take you to dinner, make it up to you?” 

 

Delia’s face softens, as if she’s debating how long to keep Patsy in the dog house, when a Welsh accent cries out to them from the hotel lobby.

 

“Cariad! I was hoping we might find you!” 

 

“Mam! I didn’t know you and Dad were staying here?” 

 

Delia’s focus shifts entirely from Patsy towards her parents. Patsy waits awkwardly for an introduction. 

 

“Is this one of your fellow bakers?” 

 

“Yes. Sorry, Mam, this is Patsy, Patsy, my mother and father.” 

 

Patsy extends a hand to the older couple. 

 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Busby.” 

 

“Likewise. Delia speaks very highly of you all.” 

 

Delia has (unconsciously) created space between herself and Patsy as pleasantries are exchanged. 

 

“I booked us a table at the restaurant, you’re just in time to join us for dinner, Delia.” 

 

It’s obvious to everyone that Patsy is not part of this invitation, and Delia makes no move to protest. 

 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she whispers by way of apology before walking away with her family. 

 

Patsy trudges to her room, promptly donning pyjamas and settling in with pizza, beer, and  _ Bridget Jones  _ on the telly. 

 

What a way to end this mess. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to throw just a bit of angst in at the last minute, but i promise the ending will be exceptionally happy, in keeping with GBBO. 
> 
> (none of that CtM terrible tragedy but everyone learns a valuable lesson business!) 
> 
> thank you for the well wishes and support for this big ol' yarn- I daresay we'll surpass 50,000 words by the time i've done the epilogue!


	21. Love is a Many Splendored Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE FINAL FINAL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me! hopefully our denouement doesn't disappoint!

 

Patsy is awoken from her carb coma by a gentle rapping on the door. 

 

“Pats? It’s me. I’m sorry. I just wanted to-” 

 

She shuffles over to the door, rubbing her bleary eyes to take in an apologetic Delia. 

 

“Come in. Don’t want to wake Phyllis from her beauty sleep.” 

 

She keeps her arms crossed protectively, as Delia slides timidly past. 

 

“I froze- I, my mam, it’s just.” 

 

Patsy holds up a hand. 

 

“You didn’t want to tell her you’d been having it off with another contestant.” Her face wrinkles in hurt. “We fucked a few times, nothing to write home about.” 

 

Delia begins to reach for Patsy before stopping herself and taking a deep breath.

 

“I just didn’t want you to be interrogated by my mother on the night before our final day of competition. I mean, given how much she gets to me, and I know all her tricks. She’s a bit harsh, or so I’ve been told.” 

 

Patsy frowns. 

 

“I could take her.” 

 

Delia grins, feeling the slightest thaw in Patsy’s pugnacious pivot. 

 

“I have no doubt you could, and to be quite honest, I would love to bear witness to such a meeting of the minds, but I completely dropped the ball on talking about it with you first.” 

 

“It’s not like I have an overbearing mother for you to meet.” 

 

Delia nods. 

 

“But you introduced me to Tony, who’s as good as family. And I’ve shared a bed with Sister Mary Cynthia! You’ve let me into your world and I haven’t done the same for you.” 

 

Patsy relents, slightly. 

 

“But I did push you away as far as possible when you suggested that we might, someday, be considered girlfriends, so it’s not entirely surprising that you might think that I’m not ready for meeting the parents.” 

 

“You said it, not me.” 

 

By now, Patsy’s arms hang loose at her sides, and Delia has bridged much of the distance between them. 

 

“Is your mother going to be knocking on your door first thing in the morning, or can you stay here with me?” 

“She’s vowed to leave me in peace until after all my bakes are out of the oven, ‘for concentration’s sake, and nothing more’.” 

 

Patsy grabs Delia’s hand and leads her to the (still warm) mattress, gesturing for her to fold her trousers on the chaise longue. 

 

“I’m feeling magnanimous because I know you’ve berated yourself more severely than I ever could. Otherwise you would be big spoon.” 

 

Delia grins, and gladly curls into Patsy, molding her body perfectly to the redhead’s taller frame. 

 

Patsy turns off the bedside lamp, enveloping them in darkness. She drapes her left arm across Delia’s stomach, holding her as close as possible. They both feign sleep, but things still feel a bit unresolved between them. Tense, even. 

 

“Pats?” 

 

Delia turns, their faces close enough to touch. 

 

Patsy is thoroughly done with words. 

 

She meets Delia in a fierce kiss, fatigue evaporating from her body as they move against one another. 

 

Sex with Delia has, up to this point, always contained a bit of playfulness- the joy of discovery, the wit of banter, the inevitable slapstick humour of two people essentially wrestling in the nude. 

 

But this… this is desperate. 

 

Clothes are flung hastily across the room, until all that’s left is skin and sweat and  _ need.  _

 

Patsy doesn’t think she’s ever held so tightly to another person before, like Delia is her last hope of survival, the one thing grounding her, and the last chance to ever take flight. 

 

When it’s over, and the stars behind her eyes fade, Delia collapses atop her, burrowing her face into the hollow between her neck and clavicle. Patsy’s defenses are down, her tongue heavy as she whispers against Delia’s hair before sleep claims them both. 

 

“I love you.” 

_ 

 

Delia’s insistence on using Patsy as a human pillow has rendered her arms completely numb. So much so, that when she extricates herself to run to the loo, her unfeeling appendage smacks sleeping beauty in the face. 

 

“Jesus fuck!” 

 

Patsy yawns, frowning. 

 

“Delia, if your mother comes barging into this room because she could hear you taking the lord’s name in vain, I will not be amused.” 

 

“Oh, wow, I’m sorry that you slapped me in the face and my reaction was a bit of cathartic cursing.” 

 

Patsy’s lips curl in a lopsided smile. 

 

“And I’m sorry your insistence on trapping me to the mattress gave me pins and needles.” 

 

Delia narrows her eyes playfully. 

 

“You know it’s a good thing that I really like this whole raspy morning voice thing you’ve got going on, or you’d be in for it right now.” 

 

“Is that so?” 

 

Patsy has half a mind to jump right back into bed, but well, there are more pressing needs at the moment. Delia laughs at her squirming. 

 

“Go on. Try not to walk into any walls, alright?” 

_ 

 

Despite the tumult of the past twelve hours, Patsy feels well-rested and calm as they head toward the tent. 

 

(Phyllis had insisted on joining them for breakfast, saying “If we can’t all be friends and have a good meal beforehand, I really don’t see the point!”) 

 

The preparations for the afternoon picnic have already begun, though the guests won’t arrive until midway through their baking. Fortunately, there’s scarcely a cloud in the sky, and the day is shaping up to be positively gorgeous. 

 

“Good morning, Bakers,” Barbara whispers. 

 

Trixie raises a brow. 

 

“Why are you whispering?” 

 

“Well, since there’s only three of them here, it feels inappropriate to shout.” 

 

“Could we compromise on just normal speaking volume?” 

 

Barbara’s shoulders slump and she concedes. 

 

“How about a bit of a soothing, sort of psychotherapist delivery?” 

 

“You know what, just say your lines however, Babs, we both know our introductions aren’t the reason viewers are tuned in.” 

 

“Where was I? Oh! In continuance of our wedding theme, our final challenge to you is a bit more open ended than any before.” 

 

“You’re all well aware of the tradition of Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, and Something Blue. Patrick and Antonia want you to interpret the adage with four tremendous bakes.” 

 

Barbara grins. 

 

“We probably ought to have mentioned that two of our crew will be getting married this afternoon, and you’re the caterers! So, prepare to feed 100.”

 

“Congratulations, Stephen and Gregory! We really hope these gals don’t stuff it up for you!” 

_

 

“I’ve never had to think so much about weddings in my life,” Patsy moans as she begins prep work on her menu. Her plan is fairly traditional; Aged Balsamic and Goat Cheese tartlets for the old, for the new, fresh homemade ricotta cannoli; borrowed is pistachio and rosewater baklava, and blueberry- ginger macarons to finish off, dyed a striking cerulean. 

 

Delia’s playfulness has returned in full force for today, and she is directing the brunt of her charm at the camera. 

 

“My personal favorite aged food is alcohol, so I’m making jaffacakes with a red wine jelly. Really classing things up, you know!” 

 

She’s taken a page from Tim’s book for the New, using molecular gastronomy to make homemade freeze-dried ice cream, which she’s putting between chocolate biscuits for an “astronaut ice cream sandwich.” Delia interprets “borrowed” more literally, bringing a mold from home to make chocolate coins, which she uses to decorate a three-tiered sponge. She goes full on-pastry chef for “blue,” creating aquamarine sugar glass to sit atop beautifully decorated petit fours. 

 

(Patsy is half-convinced Delia’s got a time turner in one of her apron pockets, so efficient is she. 

 

Phyllis brings half of the farm with her for the final. 

 

“I really feel like savoury biscuits don’t get the love and appreciation they deserve,” she pontificates, as she grates aged cheddar into her dough. Her “New” recipe features a fresh mozzarella, basil, and homegrown tomato tart. Phyllis borrows from her love of Spain, making miniature flans topped with fresh strawberry and mint. She continues her avowed love of dairy with homemade puff pastry, topped with gorgonzola and fig.

 

The presenters banter as the contestants work furiously. 

 

“Barbara, have you ever caught the bouquet at a wedding?”

 

Barbara visibly shivers. 

 

“I avoid it like the plague to tell the truth. But I did have to wear an awful dress at my sister’s wedding. Have you ever had to plan a hen party?” 

 

Trixie smiles, fondly. 

 

“You know, I rather enjoyed the whole thing. Party bus, male strippers, tacky pink feather boas. I really outdid myself.” 

 

The execution of bakes today is fairly even-handed; it appears that the judges will be going more on vision than anything else, given how nothing appears burnt of misshapen as of yet. Patsy knows she’s fighting an uphill battle, but at least she won’t look as though she’s thrown the whole thing on purpose. Blessedly, they each have an enormous amount of table space on which to set their numerous bakes, so the chances of toppled towers are greatly diminished. 

 

When the time is finally called (and Trixie and Barbara run off to change into their actual outfits for the wedding), the exhausted contestants all smile in commiseration. 

 

Antonia loves Patsy’s macaroons, calling them “incandescent pieces of the sky” and pocketing several for later. Her baklava is a bit too dense, but Patrick praises the flavour of the balsamic tarts, calling them “refreshing and hearty, simultaneously.” 

 

Delia is the clear winner in the visual realm, and Antonia’s eyes glisten with unshed tears as she purveys the transformation of sugar into art. 

 

“I am moved beyond words at what I see before me. I can only hope that my stomach agrees with my eyes.” 

 

Patrick finds the freeze-dried ice cream a bit chalky, though he admires the ingenuity of its inception. Antonia is grateful that her teeth are spared from the pain of a traditionally chilled glace. The wine jelly is roundly praised, and while the flavours of her cake and petit fours are straightforward, they’re absolutely beautiful. 

 

Phyllis’s focus on ingredients once again earns round approval from both judges, though Antonia does wish that the menu were a bit less challenging to her particular palate. Visually, her creations veer on the rustic, but their taste is unparalleled. 

 

It appears that the final showdown will be between wit and substance, but the judges take their debate elsewhere and leave the contestants to greet the excited crowd that awaits them. Tony immediately jumps up to embrace both Patsy and Delia. 

 

“You dames are absolutely brilliant! Delia, if, god forbid, I ever get married, I would like to go ahead and get you on lock for my wedding cake.” 

 

“I would be offended at the slight, but honestly, I have the feeling you’d be a total groom-zilla, so, the honour is all Delia’s,” Patsy smirks. 

 

Delia grimaces when she realizes her own family is waiting expectantly, but Patsy gives her a playful nudge before introducing Tony to all the returned contestants. She leaves him debating the merits of Cary Grant vs. Clark Gable with Winifred to find Delia, making funny faces at Peter’s son, Freddy. 

 

“I see you’ve found your peers.” 

 

“Hello, Pats! Did you lose your Tony?” 

 

“He’s currently engaged in a classic hollywood dreamboat ranking contest with Winifred, I’d say they’ll need at least three more hours to finish judgment.” 

 

“My mam says you’ve got the classiest bakes out of all of us, so you’ve won in her book. She also says that whoever made the tea deserves to lose any and all competitions.” 

 

“And what does young master Noakes think?” 

 

She gestures to the chocolate smeared round the toddler’s face. 

 

“He’s a big Delia fan. It seems we share childlike tastes.” 

 

With all the catching up, it feels more like minutes than hours before they’re called back in front of the crowd for the final judging. Patsy stands in the middle, Delia to her left and Phyllis to her right. 

 

“Distinguished guests,” Barbara calms the crowd, “After ten weeks of fierce and friendly competition, we have finally reached the moment of victory.” 

 

“Our judges were tasked with weighing unparalleled flavours with feats of aesthetic ingenuity. It was a battle of youthful energy versus aged wisdom, a return to simplicity versus an insistence on pushing the envelope. It was almost too close to call, but in the end, the ability to laugh makes us all winners.” 

 

They join hands to belt out the name of the champion.

 

“CONGRATULATIONS, DELIA!!!!”

 

Delia’s jaw drops in frozen shock before she turns to Patsy, eyes wide and smiling. 

 

“Oh, sod it,” Patsy mutters under her breath, blocking out the cameras before gripping the front of Delia’s shirt to bring her in for a joyful kiss. 

 

“Looks like Delia’s a double winner,” Phyllis laughs, while Trixie and Barbara wolf-whistle. 

 

When she pulls away, Patsy can’t help but feel a pinch of remorse. 

 

“I’m sorry, that took away from your moment, didn’t it?” 

 

Delia grins. 

 

“I’m not.” 

 

She pulls her in for another peck, for good measure. 

 

“I love you, too.” 

_ 

 

Mrs. Busby manages to school her shock enough to congratulate Delia on her victory and attempt a proper introduction to Patsy. 

 

“I think my Delia might have undersold your importance to her, Patsy. It’s nice to meet you.” 

 

Patsy blushes. 

 

“Likewise.” 

 

“I should think we’ll be seeing more of one another. I look forward to getting to know you better.” 

 

She directs a pointed glare at Delia. 

 

The presenters step back out of the fray to catch their breath and survey the culmination of the Summer’s work. Barbara rests her head thoughtfully on Trixie’s shoulder as they take in the ecstatic contestants and the joyful grooms to be. 

 

“Ain’t love grand, Trix?” 

 

Trixie rolls her eyes, but threads her spindly fingers through Barbara’s smaller hand. 

 

“It certainly is, Babs. It certainly is.” 

  
**_FIN_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, there will most certainly be an epilogue :D


	22. This is the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end end. 
> 
> for real this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just more fluff. 
> 
> (with my crackship thrown in. sorrynotsorry.)

 

“Put away the laptop.” 

 

“But Deels, if a stranger on the internet insults my ‘resting bitch face’ and I don’t see it happen in real time,  _ DID IT REALLY HAPPEN?”  _

 

Patsy sighs dejectedly, acquiescing to Delia’s superior common sense. 

 

“You know, if you hadn’t badgered me to join twitter with you when the show aired, this wouldn’t be a problem.” 

 

Delia runs her fingers through Patsy’s hair, encouraging her to lie back and relax into her as she massages her scalp. 

 

“Well, the producers did  _ highly suggest  _ it, but you’re right, I thought it might be fun. And well, after the final airs, I expect we might have to field a whole slew of press and the like.” 

 

Patsy frowns. 

 

“That sounds like an argument against social media. Besides, the worst of it won’t see the air. After Barbara recovered from her shock, she jumped in front of the cameras screaming ‘ _ RESPECT THEIR GODDAMNED PRIVACY YOU MOTHER FUCKING COCKSUCKERS’  _ and presenting every lewd gesture she could think of. So no one will see you grabbing my tit on national television.” 

 

Delia thinks back to that day. 

 

“So that was why Trixie started singing Chumbawumba… wait- I did  _ not!”  _

 

Patsy arches a brow. 

 

“Okay, maybe I got carried away. Is it my fault you’ve got magnificent tits? I am, after all, only human.” 

 

“There might be debate about that after bread week.” 

 

Delia is suspiciously quiet, her hand stilled at the base of Patsy’s neck.

 

“Is this where you come out to me as an android?” 

 

Delia wipes away a tear from her cheek, showing Patsy her iphone screen, on which someone has tagged her on twitter. 

 

_ “so... @busby_bakes’ rainbow cake gave me the courage to finally come out to my parents. They hugged me and then asked when i would be providing celebratory sponge.”  _

  
  


Patsy kisses Delia’s cheek, feeling a few pinpricks behind her own eyes. 

 

“Okay, so it’s not all terribly opinionated straight men.” She turns to kiss her properly. “You are so incredibly brave, Deels. I love you.” 

 

“I love you, too.” Delia grins, tossing the mobile aside. “That never gets old.” 

 

Patsy mutes the television, and turns her full attention to the delicious sight in front of her. 

 

“Do you know what else never gets old?” 

 

_ 

 

“How’s Munich?” 

 

Patsy squints to see Delia on the other end of her screen, dimly lit in her hotel room. 

 

“I hate beer. Pretzels are great. I’m exhausted. Did you know Germans love John Denver?” 

 

“Life is a rich tapestry. I miss you.” 

 

“Well, lucky for you, and extremely lucky for me, we fly back tomorrow. Got more footage than we planned so that’s that!” 

 

“Oh, good, you can help me prepare for your mam’s birthday-” 

 

“-no, that’s all you. She  _ insisted  _ that you bake the cake,  _ ‘so I don’t end up with some three-headed monstrosity in the middle of a tasteful tea!’”  _

 

Patsy’s tone darkens. 

 

“Well then you can help me-” 

 

Delia grimaces. 

 

“Now would probably be a good time to tell you Phyllis is sat right behind me.” 

 

Patsy groans. 

 

“Yes, yes it would, Delia.” Then, not wanting to be rude, “Hello, Phyllis.” 

 

“Hello, Patsy! I hope you’re doing well. I’ve been keeping this one out of trouble- I daresay she’s been keeping me out of it! What can I say, something about those lederhosen…” 

 

Delia waggles her brows playfully. 

 

“Well I can’t wait to see the show, ladies, but I must confess, I am incredibly glad that you’ll be taking some time off of the road for a while.” 

 

Delia flops onto her stomach, swinging her legs behind her off the edge of the bed. 

 

“Put Mary Cynthia on- I’d like to speak to her.” 

 

The aforementioned feline jumps into Patsy’s lap on cue, rubbing her teeth against the edge of the screen. 

 

“I know you’re taking good care of our girl, kneading dough on her belly when she gets anxious, reminding her to  _ put away the laptop,  _ generally just being the most wonderful creature in the world, and I just wanted to say thank you. And I’m sorry for taking your spot on the bed when I get back.” 

 

“You monster,” Patsy whispers, shocked. 

 

“Well, I suppose if it’s preferable, I can just get on top of you…” 

 

Phyllis clears her throat. 

 

“Still very much here.” 

 

Delia sighs. 

 

“Damn these low-budget productions. Next time we’re getting two rooms, Phyllis, or we go on strike.” 

 

“I’m sorry Phyllis, thank you for your patience. I’ll see you tomorrow Delia, rest up.” 

_ 

 

“It is so. Good. to. Be. Home,” Delia purrs as she curls into Patsy’s side. 

 

“Agreed.” 

 

Patsy rubs her hand soothingly along Delia’s spine, closing her eyes and reveling in the moment. 

 

“You remember we’re meeting Trixie and Barbara for dinner tonight, correct?”

 

Delia pops one eye open, suspiciously. 

 

“You really know how to ruin a moment sometimes, you know that?”

 

Patsy smiles, gently. 

 

“I just didn’t want you to forget, and if I waited any longer I fear we might get… distracted again.” 

 

Delia smirks, stretching to prepare for action. 

 

“You know me so well, Pats.” 

 

“I’ll set an alarm so we aren’t late.” 

_

 

They’re fifteen minutes late, due to a last minute emergency snog session on the way out of the flat, but still manage to beat Trixie and Barbara to the restaurant. It’s a quietly hip sort of place, where the clientele are too cool to make a fuss about minor celebrity, but not so snobby as to think themselves entirely above such a spectacle. 

 

Patsy and Delia snuggle into a booth in the back corner and people watch as they await their companions. 

 

“First date?” Delia gestures at a tense straight couple across the way from them. 

 

Patsy shakes her head firmly. 

 

“Break up. Ten quid says she leaves before dessert and stiffs him on the bill.” 

 

“You’re on.” 

 

Patsy’s face brightens as she spies Trixie and Barbara, and she waves them over. 

 

Delia sits back, observing the pair. Her eyes narrow as she notes the body language between the two. 

 

“Twenty quid says Trix and Babs have something very special to tell us,” she whispers in Patsy’s ear. 

 

Patsy opens her mouth to ask for an explanation, but she’s stopped by the enthusiastic arrival of the presenters, who promptly sweep them into hugs. 

 

“Oh, it’s so good to see you two,” Trixie gushes. “You look just as lovely and splendid as ever.” 

 

“As do you,” Patsy assents. “Are you enjoying your time off before the next series shoots?” 

 

“If you can call it that,” Barbara chuckles. “You’d be surprised just how many quiz shows there are on which to appear.” 

 

The waiter takes their drink order, and Trixie and Barbara conspicuously decline the offer to share a bottle of wine. 

 

“How are you liking the biz, Delia?”  Trixie folds her hands, smile faintly predatory. 

 

“It’s certainly different once you know how the sausage is made, so to speak, but I can’t imagine a better partner in crime than Phyllis.” 

 

“At least I know she’s well taken care of,” Patsy rolls her eyes. 

 

“I would apologize for taking your job,” Delia continues to Trixie, “But I have a feeling interviewing drunken crowds of people isn’t really your dream gig.” 

 

“Right you are, Delia, right you are. I think I’ve got a pretty good thing going right now.” 

 

She smiles fondly at Barbara, who blushes, turning her eyes toward the table bashfully. 

 

Delia huffs. 

 

“Alright, spit it out, you two, I’ve got a good chunk of money riding on this.“

 

Trixie feigns innocence for a moment, before Patsy joins in on the intense scrutiny, pulling her best no-nonsense stare. 

 

Barbara relents first. 

 

“Well, it’s all pretty new, but I suppose you could say Trixie and I are more than cohosts...” 

 

“The same way we were more than competitors?” 

 

(Delia sounds suspiciously like her mother when she’s interrogating someone. Patsy is simultaneously amused and horrified.) 

 

Barbara clears her throat and blushes deeper, nodding, and Trixie takes over. 

 

“There’s no need to make a big production about it, honestly. We just came to a few mutual realizations. I’m sure you know how that goes.” 

 

Patsy nods solemnly, but a hint of a sparkle remains in her eye. 

 

“Are you quite certain we can’t persuade you for the full story?” 

 

Trixie waves her hands resignedly. 

 

“Just don’t sell me out to the Daily Mail, alright?” 

 

Delia shakes her hand firmly. 

 

“Deal.” 

 

“Well, it all kind of started when we were at one of those industry parties, what was it?” 

 

“-the release of Antonia’s new calendar,” Barbara supplies. 

 

“Sure, doesn’t really matter where, but thank you, sweetie. Well, this terribly handsome fellow started chatting Barbara up, and I found myself just burning with jealousy. Normally, I would just be infuriated that she would be getting all the attention, but I just kept thinking of horrible ways for this bloke to meet his untimely end.” 

 

“You’re not at all violent by nature,” Barbara remarks. 

 

“Anyhow, I tried to calm all of these terrifyingly strong emotions with a series of gin and tonics, and Barbara ended up escorting me home before I made a public scene, and in between bouts of vomiting I think I told her I was a bit in love with her.” 

 

“That’s right. And I told you that you might ought to think about cutting back on the drinking and maybe we could talk.” 

 

Trixie raises her mineral water. 

 

“And here I am, six months sober.” 

 

Patsy’s eyes widen, impressed. 

 

“Good for you.” 

 

Delia nods, taking in the story and putting all the missing pieces together. 

 

“I don’t mean to pry, but does all of this change how you identify? “

 

Trixie shrugs. 

 

“I still adore a good looking man, but I think for the moment, I’m strictly Barbara-sexual.” 

 

“And you?” 

 

Patsy turns her attention to Barbara, who’s been more quiet than usual throughout the evening. 

 

“I’ve fancied Trixie from the moment I saw her- I mean you two do have functioning eyesight. I’ve liked blondes of all persuasions for as long as I can remember.” 

 

“Don’t tell her it’s all peroxide,” Trixie stage whispers. 

 

“Trix, I’ve seen your bathroom. I know all your secrets.” 

 

Trixie gasps, mock-horrified. 

 

“Speaking of secrets, I seriously doubt we need to tell you this, but we aren’t exactly ready for snogging on live broadcast.” 

 

Patsy pouts. 

 

“I’m only going to let that dig slide because of all the times you saved my hide previously.” 

 

Barbara interjects to smooth things over. 

 

“What Trixie means to say is thank you for inspiring us on some sort of subliminal level to get over ourselves, even if we aren’t quite ready for your level of visibility.” 

 

“Well, we welcome you to the sisterhood with open arms,” Delia grins, raising a glass to the unlikely couple. 

 

“To love, wherever the hell you can find it!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy boxing day if that's something you observe! 
> 
> here's to a 2017 that is marginally better than 2016!


End file.
